Baker,  George  Melville 
A  little  more  cider 

Contents 

A  little  more  cider 
Past  redemption 
Sylvia’s  soldier 


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A  Little  More  Cider 


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THE  AMAZONS  ^'arce  in  Three  -A-cts.  Seven  males,  five  females. 

Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  not  difficult.  Plays 

a  full  evening. 

THE  CABINET  MINISTER  •FarceinFour'A-cts-  Ten  males,  nine 

,  females.  Costumes,  modern  society  ; 

scenei  y,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

DANDY  DICK  Farce  in  Three  Acts.  Seven  males,  four  females. 

Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  two  interiors.  Plays 
two  hours  and  a  half. 

THE  GAY  LORD  OUEX  Comedy  in  Four  Acts.  Four  males,  ten 

^  females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 

two  interiors  and  an  exterior.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

HIS  HOUSE  IN  ORDER  Comedy  *n  -^our  Acts.  Nine  males,  four 

'  females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 

three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  HOBBY  HORSE  ^omedy  *n  Three  Acts.  Ten  males,  five 

females.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery  easy. 
Plays  two  hours  and  a  half. 

IBIS  Drama  in  Five  Acts.  Seven  males,  seven  females.  Costumes, 
modern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

I  ADY  ROIINTIFIII  *n  Four  Acts.  Eight  males,  seven  fe¬ 
males.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  four  in¬ 
teriors,  not  easy  Plays  a  full  evening. 

I  pTTV  Drama  in  Four  Acts  and  an  Epilogue.  Ten  males,  five  fe¬ 
males.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery  complicated.  Plays  a 
full  evening. 


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A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


A  FARCE. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

“Better  than  Gold,”  “Our  Folks,”  “The  Flower  of  the  Family,”  “En¬ 
listed  for  the  War,”  “My  Brother’s  Keeper,”  “  The  Little  Brown  Jug,” 
“Above  the  Clouds,”  “One  Hundred  Years  Ago,”  “Among  the  Breakers,” 
“Bread  on  the  Waters,”  “Down  by  the  Sea,”  “Once  on  a  Time,”  “The 
Last  Loaf ,”  “  Stand  by  the  Flag,”  “The  Tempter,”  “A  Mysterious  Dis¬ 
appearance,”  “Paddle  Your  Own  Canoe,”  “A  Drop  too  Much,”  “A  Little 
More  Cider,”  “A  Thorn  Among  the  Roses,”  “Never  Say  Die,”  “Seeing 
the  Elephant,”  “The  Boston  Dip,”  “The  Duchess  of  Dublin,”  “Thirty 
Minutes  for  Refreshments,”  “We’re  all  Teetotalers,”  “A  Close  Shave,” 
“A  Public  Benefactor,”  “A  Sea  of  Troubles,”  “A  Tender  Attachment,” 
“Coals  of  Fire,”  “Freedom  of  the  Press,”  “Shall  Our  Mothers  Vote?” 
“Gentleman  of  the  Jury,”  “Humors  of  the  Strike,”  “My  Uncle  the 
Captain,”  “New  Brooms  Sweep  Clean,”  “The  Great  Elixir,”  “The  Hy¬ 
pochondriac,”  “The  Man  with  the  Demijohn,”  “The  Runaways,”  “The 
Thief  of  Time,”  “  Wanted,  a  Male  Cook,”  “A  Love  of  a  Bonnet,”  “A 
Precious  Pickle,”  “No  Cure  No  Pay,”  “The  Champion  of  Her  Sex,” 
“The  Greatest  Plague  in  Life,”  “  The  Grecian  Bend,”  “  The  Red  Chignon,” 
“Using  the  Weed,”  “ Lightheart’s  Pilgrimage,”  “The  Revolt  of  the 
Bees,”  “The  Sculptor’s  Triumph,”  “The  Tournament  of  Idylcourt,” 
“The  War  of  the  Roses,”  “An  Original  Idea,”  “Bonbons,”  “Capuletta,” 
“Santa  Claus’ Frolics,”  “Snow-Bound,”  “The  Merry  Christmas  of  the 
Old  Woman  who  Lived  in  a  Shoe,”  “The  Pedler  of  Very  Nice,”  “The 
Seven  Ages,”  “Too  Late  for  the  Train,”  “The  Visions  of  Freedom,” 
“Rebecca’s  Triumph,”  “Comrades,”  “Past  Redemption,”  “Nevada,** 
“Messmates,”  &c.,  &c. 


BOSTON 


THE  SOCIAL  STAGE 

ORIGINAL 

DRAMAS,  COMEDIES,  BURLESQUES, 

AND  ENTERTAINMENTS  FOR  HOME  RECREATION, 
SCHOOLS,  AND  PUBLIC  EXHIBITIONS 


GEORGE  M.  BAKER 


CONTAINING 

The  Last  Loaf  LighthearPs  Pilgrimage 

A  Grecian  Bend  The  War  of  the  Roses 

Too  Late  for  the  Train  Thirty  Minutes  for  Refreshments 
Snow-Bound  A  Little  More  Cider 

Bon-Bons  A  New  Broom  Sweeps  Clean 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  YEAR  1870,  BY 

GEORGE  M.  BAKER 

IN  THE  CLERK’S  OFFICE  OF  THE  DISTRICT  COURT  OF  THE  DISTRICT  OF  MASSA¬ 
CHUSETTS 

Copyright,  1898,  by  Emily  F.  Baker  (in  renewal) 


I 


%\2. 


4  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.*1 


A  FARCE. 


CHARACTERS. 

t  ■ 

Eeabtus  Applejack,  the  cider-maknr 
Zeb  Applejack,  his  son. 

Deacon  Peaceblossom. 

Isaac  Peachblossom,  his  son. 

Hans  Drinkek. 

Miss  Patience  Applejack. 

Polly  Applejack. 

Hetty  Mason. 


COSTUMES. 

Eeastus  and  Zeb,  old-fashioned  Yankee  suits 
Deacon,  dark  modern  suit. 

Isaac,  genteel  modern  suit. 

Hans  Drinker,  rusty-gray  suit. 

Miss  Patience,  dark-brov.ru  dress,  cap,  and  spectacles. 

Polly,  red  dress,  short  sleeves,  low-necked;  long  calico  aproo 
liair  drawn  back,  and  twisted  into  a  pug ;  long  ear-rings. 

Hetty  Mason,  calico  dress,  long  apron. 

Scene.  —  Boom,  in  Farmer  Applejack’s  house.  Sofa 
c.,  back.  Small  table  l.,  at  which  sits  Miss  Patience, 
knitting  Polly  and  Zeb  seated  r.,  he  holding ,  sh« 
unndinq ,  a  skein  of  yarn. 

35 


26 


"A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 


Zeb.  Gosh  all  hemlock !  Polly,  what  Air  yeon  • 
thinkin’  on  ?  Thinkin’  ’bout  some  feller,  I  bet. 

Polly .  W  a’n’t  doin’  nothin’  of  the  sort.  I  was 
thinkin’  ’bout  my  new  Sunday  bunnet. 

Zeb.  Well,  fashion  or  fellers,  they’re  all  alike.  When 
a  gal  gits  thinkin’  ’bout  either  on  ’em,  she  ain’t  good  for 
nothin’. 

Polly.  Precious  little  you  know  ’bout  either  on  ’em. 
I  heerd  Sally  Higgins  say  that  your  go-to-meetin’  coat 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  made  in  the  Revolution. 

Zeb.  Darn  Sally  Higgins !  What  does  she  know 
’bout  war,  any  how?  Say,  Polly,  what  was  Ike  Peach- 
blossom  sayin’  to  yeou  on  the  doorsteps  last  night? 

Polly.  None’er  your  business,  Zeb  Applejack.  What 
were  you  doi_i’  so  near  Hetty  Mason’s  cheek,  deown  by 
the  pump,  last  night? 

Zeb.  Neow  quit,  Polly :  ’twa’n’t  nothin’.  Ye  see,  I 
was  a-goin’  deown  tew  the  barn,  and  Hetty,  she  was  a- 
cumin’  up  tew  the  house,  and  along  there  by  the  pump  a 
darned  big  bumble-bee  lit  on  her,  and  I  was  just  brushin* 
it  off.  That’s  ail. 

Polly.  That’s  a  likely  story.  Yeou  know  pa  has 
forbidden  yeou  to  show  any  attention  to  Hetty  Mason. 

Zeb.  Yes ;  and  he’s  forbidden  yeou  tains’  any  fronr 
Ike  Peachblossom.  I  guess  we’re  in  the  same  boat. 

Polly.  Well,  yeou  stand  by  me,  and  I’ll  stand  t 
yeou. 

Miss  Patience.  Massy  sakes  !  What  air  yeou  young 
ones  quarrelling  about? 

Polly.  Law,  Aunt  Patience,  tain’t  nothin*.  Zeb  got 
stung  by  a  bumble-bee  last  night,  and  was  J^out  it 


27 


u  A.  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 

Zeb.  That’s  all,  Aunt  Patience  ;  but  ’twas  a  bouncer 

Polly.  And  loaded  with  honey,  wa Vt  it,  Zeb  ? 

Zeb.  Darn  it,  Polly,  don’t  aggravate  a  feller. 

Miss  P.  Bumble  -bees  !  Oh,  they’re  deceitful,  artful 
creeters !  When  Deacon  Peachblossom  came  a-cc  urtin’ 
on  me,  —  afore  he  married  Abigail  Spooner,  —  one  arter- 
noon,  when  we  were  settin’  on  the  doorsteps,  one  oi 
them  critters  lit  right  on  to  the  end  of  his  nose,  — jest  as 
he  was  a  sayin’  the  sweetest  things,  tew. 

Zeb.  Of  course.  That’s  what  brought  him  there. 

Miss  P .  I  never  shall  forget  how  that  poor  feller  did 
holler.  He  jest  gave  one  jump,  and  then  went  tearin’ 
diro’  the  village,  a-holdin’  on  to  his  nose  like  a  mad¬ 
man.  It  spilt  his  beauty  for  a  while,  I  tell  yeou  ;  and 
spilt  a  match,  tew,  for  he  turned  right  round  and  went 
kitin’  arter  Abigail  Spooner  from  that  very  day. 

Zeb.  He’s  a  darned  humbug,  any  how.  His  nose 
looks  as  though  the  bumble-bees  had  been  a-foul  of  it 
lately.  He  drinks. 

Miss  P.  Why,  Zebulon,  how  can  yeou  talk  so?  Isn’t 
he  one  of  the  pillers  of  the  temperance  movement. 

Zeb.  He’s  a  darned  old  humbug.  He’s  talked  dad, 
here,  into  leavin’  eout  cider,  when  dad  went  down  to 
Gineral  Court  to  legislate  last  winter. 

Miss  P.  It’s  a  blessed  thing  that  they  succeeded  in 
getting  it  excepted,  for  what  would  we  have  done  for  our 
mince-pies. 

Polly.  I  wish  cider  had  never  been  heard  of.  Here 
pa  and  Isaac  Peachblossom  must  get  to  quarrelling  about 
it ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that  Isaac  has  been  told  that 
kis  company  was  not  required.  I  declare,  it’s  real  mean  1 
I  hate  cider ! 


28 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


tf 

Miss  P.  Law,  Polly,  how  can  yeou  talk  so?  Why* 
your  father,  my  Brother  Erastus,  is  making  lots  er  money 
on  it.  Well,  no  wonder,  for  folks  do  say  that  Erastus 
4pplejack’s  cider  beats  the  world.  He’s  makin’  money. 

Zeb.  Yes  ;  and  gitting  stuck  up,  tew.  Look  at  Hetty 
Mason.  There’s  a  gal  I  set  my  heart  on,  and  it  was  all 
right  until  this  darned  cider-bill  was  passed ;  and  then 
dad,  he  up  and  says  I  can’t  marry  her,  because  she’s 
poor. 

Miss  P.  Well,  Zebulon,  yeou  must  be  patient.  Your 
father  knows  what’s  best  for  yeou. 

Zeb.  Does  he?  Well,  I  know  what’s  best  for  me, 
tew  ;  and  that’s  Hetty  Mason.  And  I’m  a-goin*  to  have 
her,  in  spite  of  all  the  dads  in  creation. 

Enter  Applejack,  l. 

Applejack.  Oh,  yeou  air!  air  yeou?  Well,  I  rather 
think  I  shell  have  somethin’  tew  say  ’bout  that.  Zeb 
Applejack,  look  me  in  the  eye.  Ain’t  I  been  a  father 
tew  yeou  { 

Zeb.  Well,  s’posin’  yer  hev :  ’twa’n’t  my  fault,  was 
it? 

Applejack.  Haven’t  I  provided  yer  a  liberal  edication? 

Zeb.  Supposin’  yer  hev :  yer  took  it  eout  in  boardin’ 
the  schoolmaster. 

Applejack.  And  neow  yeou  want  ter  go  and  spile  all 
my  projects,  by  marrying  Hetty  Mason. 

Zeb.  Well,  dad,  where’ll  yer  find  a  smarter  gal.  or  a 
prettier  gal,  than  Hetty? 

Applejack.  Waal,  Hetty’s  all  very  well  in  her  place , 
but  fence  I’ve  found  eout  the  way  to  make  the  best  cidei 


"A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.”  29 

in  teown,  —  and  cider’s  to  be  the  daily  and  standard 
drink  ov  the  community,  sence  the  legislatur*  has  knocked 
rumselling,  —  I’ve  made  up  my  mind  there’s  a  fortin  a- 
comin’  to  E.  Applejack,  and  the  aforesaid  E.  Applejack 
will  probably  and  eventually  be  the  biggest  man  in 
teown ;  and  it’s  high  time  we  held  up  our  heads  a  bit. 
Hetty’s  a  poor  girl.  If  yeou  must  marry,  look  higher. 
There’s  Lawyer  Lawson’s  daughters,  five  likely  gals. 
Why  don’t  yeou  take  one  of  them  ? 

Zeb.  I  tell  yer,  dad,  it’s  no  use  talkin’.  Hetty  Mason 
is  the  gal  of  my  choice.  I  don’t  care  a  darn  for  yeour 
high  notions.  I’m  goin’  to  marry  the  gal  I  like,  and 
there  she  is. 

Enter  Hetty  Mason,  l. 

Applejack.  Yer  ain’t  a  goin*  ter  do  nothin’  uv  ther 
sort.  Hetty  Mason,  yeou  jest  pack  up  yeour  band-box, 
and  start  eout  uv  this  house  at  once. 

Zeb .  Do,  Hetty  ;  and  I’ll  pack  up  a  clean  shirt,  and 
go  right  along  with  yer. 

Applejack.  Yeou  won’t  do  nothin’  ov  the  sort. 

Zeb.  Yaas,  I  will.  Yeou  turn  her  eout,  and  yeou 
turn  me  eout. 

Applejack.  Hetty  Mason,  yeou  needn’t  pack  yer  band- 
box  jest  yet. 

Hetty.  Well,  I  declare !  I’m  getting  tired  of  this. 
It’s  the  same  thing  every  day.  “  Pack  your  band-box, 
and  don’t  pack  your  band-box.”  If  you  two,  father  and 
son,  would  come  to  some  conclusion  regarding  my  future 
welfare,  it  would  spare  my  wardrobe  a  great  deal  of 
tumbling. 

Polly.  Don’t  mind  them,  Hetty.  It  will  come  out 
All  right 


30 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 


Hetty .  Well,  I  hope  it  will,  for  I’m  getting  tired  of  it 

Applejack .  We’ll  talk  this  over  some  other  time,  when 
you’re  cooler.  But  miud,  Zebulon,  no  sparking  round 
my  house.  I  won’t  have  it. 

Enter  Hans  Drinker,  r. 

Hans .  Goot  tay,  mine  Friend  Applejack  :  it  is  varmer 
dan  never  vash,  and  I  ish  very  try.  I  vould  like  some 
trinks. 

Applejack.  Oh,  some  of  my  cider  !  Hey,  Hans  ? 

Hans.  Yaw,  dat  ish  goot  cider.  I  have  never  trinks 
such  goot  cider  since  ven  I  cooms  from  Faderland,  and 
dat  vash  lager  bier. 

Applejack.  Hetty,  bring  a  glass  of  cider. 

Hans.  In  a  mug.  Do  you  hear,  my  chile?  I  vill 
have  mine  glass  of  cider  in  a  mug.  It  ish  so  mooch 
better,  (aside)  and  so  mooch  larger.  (Exit  Hetty,  l.) 

Miss  P.  Well,  Mr.  Drinker,  what  is  the  news? 

Hans.  Veil,  not  mooch.  Old  Johnson  fell  into  the 
vater  last  night,  ven  he  be  very  trunk.  They  have  not 
find  him.  But  that  ish  no  matter,  ’cause  he  be  not  ov 
mooch  use  now.  Miss  Murray,  she  proke  her  leg  the 
day  pefore  to-night.  Meester  Jones,  he  failed  week 
pefore  next.  Meester  Smith  have  a  new  litter  of  pigs, 
and  Meester  Harris  have  a  new  papy  at  his  house. 
But  I  ton’t  think  of  any  news,  I  pelieve. 

Enter  Hetty,  l.,  with  mug  of  cider . 

Applejack  (takes  cider ,  and  passes  it  to  Hans).  There, 
Friend  Hans,  there  is  a  mug  of  the  best  cider  ever  made. 

Hans.  Dat  ish  so.  (Tastes.)  Ah,  dat  ish  goot  cidei 


"A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.”  31 

ash  never  vash.  Yell,  I  trinks  your  good  health,  Meeste* 
Applejack.  I  trinks  your  goot  health,  Miss  Patience. 
[  trink  your  goot  health,  Miss  Polly.  Py  jinks,  1 
/rinks  all  your  goot  healths.  (Drinks.)  Ah,  dat  ish 
goot.  Meester  Applejack,  I  shall  recommend  your  cider 

Applejack.  Thank  yeou,  Hans  ;  and,  whenever  yeou  are 
?oing  by,  don’t  fail  to  drop  in  and  have  a  mug  of  it 
feou  are  always  welcome. 

Hans.  Dat  ish  goot.  I  shall  rememper  and  call  again, 
dy  dunder,  dat  is  goot  cider.  ( Exit ,  r.) 

Applejack.  An  honest  old  fellow,  Hans  Drinker. 

Zeb.  Honest.  P’r’aps  he  is ;  but,  if  he  don’t  skin 
yeou  out  of  a  barrel  of  cider  afore  he  gets  through,  my 
name’s  not  Zeb  Applejack. 

Applejack.  I’ll  risk  it.  But  come,  Patience,  how’s 
this?  It’s  seven  o’clock.  Deacon  Peachblossom  speaks 
on  temperance  at  the  vestry  at  half-past. 

i*s  P.  Massy  sakes  !  So  he  does  !  (Jumps  up , 
rolls  up  \er  knitting.)  I  declare,  I  wouldn’t  miss  hearing 
the  deacon  for  a  good  deal.  I’ll  be  ready  in  a  minute. 
(Exit,  v  ) 

ApplejaJi.  Come,  Polly,  you’d  better  be  getting  ready. 

Polly.  1  iUu’t  a-going. 

Applejack.  Oh,  yes,  yeou  are  !  S’pose  yeou  want  to 
stay  at  home  in  hopes  that  Isaac  Peachblossom  will 
happen  about  here  when  I’m  away.  Come,  get  ready. 
Yeou,.  tew,  Zeb. 

Zeb.  Me  1  I  ain’t  a-goin’. 

Applejack.  Who’s  the  head  ov  this  here  family,  I’d 
like  to  know?  I  tell  yeou  you’re  both  a-going.  Now 
let’s  have  no  ifs,  ands,  or  buts  about  it. 


32  “A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 

Enter  Isaac  Peachblossom,  r. 

Isaac.  How  are  you,  Mr.  Applejack?  How  are  yo« 
Zeb?  Ah,  Polly,  I  kiss  my  hands  to  you. 

Applejack.  Well,  don’t  trouble  yerself,  Isaac  Peach- 
blossom.  When  she  wants  any  kissing  done,  she  won’t 
come  to  you. 

Polly.  {Aside.)  That’s  a  whopper. 

Isaac.  Well,  don’t  mind  me.  I  dropped  in  on  a  little 
business.  You  know  the  legislature  last  year  passed  a 
bill  exempting  cider  from  the  prohibition  law.  Of  course 
you  do,  for  we’ve  had  many  an  argument  about  it,  —  you 
contending  for  cider  as  a  harmless  and  necessary  bev¬ 
erage,  I  contending  that  it  was  an  intoxicating  drink. 
My  father  took  sides  with  you  and  you  triumphed  iD 
the  legislature,  punishing  me  for  my  opposition  by  break¬ 
ing  off  the  contemplated  marriage  of  your  daughter  and 
myself. 

Applejack.  Well,  what  in  thunder  is  all  this  coming 
to? 

Isaac.  Listen.  In  this  town,  no  sooner  was  it  made 
legal  than  there  appeared  to  be  a  determination  on  the 
part  of  everybody  to  take  to  drinking  cider. 

Applejack.  Of  course.  A  harmless  and  necessary 
beverage. 

Isaac.  {Producing  letter.)  Well,  I  don’t  believe  that, 
you  know.  But,  however,  I  couldn’t  understand  it. 
But  the  matter’s  all  out.  A  friend  of  mine,  residing  in 
Boston,  writes  me  {reads),  “  I  must  put  you  up  to  a  new 
dodge  of  your  country  prohibitionists.  Now  cider  is 
exempted,  we  have  an  unusually  large  call  for  empty 
Whiskey-barrels.  The  parties  who  make  cider  buy  them 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.”  33 

to  put  their  cider  in,  as  whiskey  gives  a  particular  flavoi 
to  the  cider.  This  is  bad  enough  for  those  who  profess  to 
be  so  temperate  ;  but  one  old  fellow,  who  lives  not  a  great 
way  from  your  town,  buys  regularly  six  barrels  a  week, 
with  particular  directions  to  have  one-third  of  the  whiskey 
usually  contained  in  the  barrel  left  in.  Pretty  sharp 
practice,  hey !  ” 

Zeb.  I  should  think  so.  Why,  it’s  a  downright 
swindle. 

Polly .  What  rascality  ! 

Applejack .  That  man — that  man — that  man — ought 
to  be  cut  off  from  respectable  society. 

Isaac .  Of  course  he  had.  And  Pm  determined  to 
find  him  out  and  punish  him. 

Applejack .  Well,  I  hope  you  will.  Where  on  earth 
is  Patience?  We  shall  be  late  for  lecture.  (Goes  b., 
and  calls.)  Patience,  Patience.  {Exit  r.) 

Zeb.  {Crosses  to  Hetty,  r.)  I  s’pose  I’ve  got  to  go, 
Hetty ;  but  Pll  be  back  here  in  fifteen  minutes. 

Polly.  {Crosses  to  Isaac,  l.)  I’ve  got  to  go  to  that 
plaguy  lecture ;  but,  just  as  soon  as  I’ve  got  there,  Pm 
going  to  sneak  out  and  come  right  here. 

Isaac.  A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient,  Polly.  Good- 
day,  Zeb.  {Exit  l.) 

Zeb.  Good-day,  Ike. 

Patience.  {Outside.)  Erastus,  don’t  swear  so.  You’re 
the  awfullest  man  that  ever  I  did  see.  I  can’t  help  it, 
if  I  do  lose  my  specs. 

Applejack.  Well,  come  along,  and  hold  yeour  tongue. 
{Enter  Applejack  and  Miss  Patience,  l.,  shawled  and 
bonneted.)  Now,  then,  Polly,  git  yeour  things ;  an<J 


U,  OF  ILL  LIB, 


34 


“  A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


yeou,  Zeb,  git  yeour  hat.  It’s  time  we  were  off.  (Exit 

L EB,  L.,  POLLY,  R.) 

Patience.  So,  Deacon  Peachblossom’s  a-goin’  to  gir« 
his  idees  on  temperance.  Well,  I  like  the  deacon. 

Applejack.  That’s  what  folks  says,  Sister  Patience. 
They  all  think  yeou’d  be  mighty  glad  to  step  into  the 
late  Mrs.  Peachblossom’s  shoes. 

Patience.  La,  do  they?  Well,  they  might  »ay  worse 
things ;  for,  if  I  do  say  it  as  hadn’t  orter,  if  there  is  a 
livin’  woman  on  the  face  of  this  earth,  in  face,  figger, 
and  ability,  capable  of  takin’  the  place  of  Abigail  Spooner, 
I’m  that  woman. 

Applejack.  Waal,  I  hope  yeou  won’t  be  disappinted. 
Bat  yeou  ain’t  so  young  as  yeou  was  thirty  years  ago. 

Patience.  Erastus ! 

»  % 

Applejack.  Yer  not  a  tempting  morsel  to  a  widower ; 
for  they  do  say  they’re  awful  perticular  peeple,  and  gray 
hair  — 

Patience.  Erastus ! 

Applejack.  Well,  I  won’t  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag, 
Patience. 

Enter  Zeb,  l.,  and  Polly,  b. 

Applejack.  Neow,  then,  let’s  be  off  to  lecture.  Here, 
Zeb,  yeou  take  yer  Aunt  Patience,  and  I’ll  look  arter 
Polly.  (Zeb  gives  Patience  his  arm ,  Applejack  gives 
his  to  Polly.)  Neow,  then,  forward  —  march. 

Enter  Hans  Drinker,  l. 

Hans.  By  donder,  dat  ish  de  best  cider  ash  nevsy 
was. 

Applejack,  Hallo,  Hans,  back  again? 


"A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.”  35 

Hans.  Yaw,  Meester  Appleiack.  I  leave  von  leetli 
of  de  cider  in  de  mug  ;  but  I  coomed  pack  for  it. 

Applejack.  Ah  !  Yeou  want  another  mug,  yeou  ras¬ 
cal.  Here,  Hetty  ( enter  Hetty,  l.)  !  Bring  Hans  a  mug 
of  cider.  Make  yerself  at  home,  Hans.  We  must  b« 
off  to  lecture.  ( Exit  Applejack  and  Polly,  Patience 
and  Zeb,  r.) 

Hans.  Veil,  never  you  mind  me.  I  pe  all  right.  Now 
mine  chile,  you  hear  vhat  de  ole  man  say.  I’ll  take 
mine  mug  of  cider. 

Hetty.  Why,  you’ve  just  drank  nearly  a  quart ! 

Hans.  A  quart !  No,  mine  chile,  you  are  meestaken. 
I  have  not  trink  a  quart. 

Hetty.  I’m  sure  of  it. 

Hans.  By  donder,  it  cannot  been.  Mine  chile,  bring 
me  de  quart,  till  I  see  for  mineself.  ( Exit  Hetty,  l. 
By  donder,  dat  ish  goot  cider.  I  vish  I  vas  de  man  va. 
make  dat  cider.  I  vould  never  get  up  some  more,  bu„ 
vould  lay  in  mine  bed  all  de  time,  and  trink  cider. 

Enter  Hetty,  l.,  with  mug. 

Hetty.  There,  Mr.  Drinker,  is  the  same  mug.  ’Tis 
full  now,  and  it  holds  a  quart. 

Hans.  Ish  dat  de  mug  ?  By  donder,  I  did  not  think 
it  would  held  so  mooch.  A  quart.  But  I  did  not  trink 
it  all.  I  could  not  trink  it  all.  I  vill  show  you  I  could 
not  trink  it  all.  ( Drinks ,  and  turns  over  mug.) 

Hetty.  There,  you  see  it  is  all  gone. 

Hans.  Mine  chile,  it  has  gone.  I  never  did  see  any 
tdng  go  sc  quick  in  my  life. 

Hetty.  Nor  I,  either.  I  should  think  you  had  enough 

to  last  you  a  week. 


36 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 

Hans .  Xou  do  !  Veil,  so  do  I ;  but  I  have  not. 
donder,  dat  is  goot  cider,  mine  chile.  (Exit,  r.) 

Hetty.  Well,  I’m  glad  he’s  gone.  I  guess  Mr.  Apple* 
jack  will  repent  of  his  invitation,  lor  he’ll  be  sure  to 
pester  us  with  his  attentions  as  long  as  there  is  any  cider 
about.  I’ll  light  a  candle,  and  sit  down  and  wait  for 
Zeb. 

Enter  Zeb,  l. 

Zeb .  Well,  I  managed  to  git  Aunt  Patience  off  my 
hands,  without  going  into  the  vestry.  Who  should  come 
along,  when  we  were  half-way,  but  Deacon  Peachblossom. 
The  minit  Aunt  Patience  saw  him,  she  began  to  fidgit. 
So  I  managed  to  get  him  up  on  the  other  side  of  her, 
and  then  I  scooted. 

Hetty.  Very  well;  and  now,  Mr.  Zeb  Applejack, 
that  we  are  alone  once  more,  will  you  oblige  me  with  a 
plain  statement  of  your  intentions. 

Zeb.  (Sits  on  sofa  with  Hetty.)  My  intention  is  to 
marry  you  one  of  these  days. 

Hetty.  Is  it?  One  of  these  days  won’t  do. 

Zeb.  Why,  Hetty  !  Don’t  you  know  I  love  you,  — ■ 
that  you’re  the  apple  of  my  eye,  —  that  I  shall  die  with¬ 
out  you,  —  that  I  feel  —  I  feel  —  I  feel  — 

Hetty.  There,  don’t  go  to  singing  that  old  song  :  it’3 
played  out.  I  decline  entering  into  any  engagement 
with  you  in  the  present  unsettled  state  of  affairs.  Eithei 
your  father  gives  his  consent  before  this  time  to-morrow, 
or  I  leave  the  house,  never  to  return. 

Zeb.  But,  Hetty,  don’t  be  so  quick. 

Hetty .  Zeb,  don’t  be  so  slow.  We  have  been  wait¬ 
ing,  waiting,  waiting,  until  I  am  heartily  sick  of  thf 


37 


“  A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 

ielay.  You  know  I  love  you,  or  you  would  never  let 
me  be  abused  —  in  this  —  wicked  —  manner  —  by- —  that 
—  ugly  —  old  —  man.  ( Sobs ,  and  falls  into  Zed’s  arms.) 

Zeb.  Neow,  Hetty,  don’t  cry.  I’ll  have  it  settled 
to-morrow,  if  I  have  to  lick  dad  till  he  gives  his  consent. 
I  ain’t  afraid  of  him.  When  he  comes,  I’ll  jest  give  him 
a  piece  of  my  mind.  ( Noise  outside ,  r.)  Thunder  * 
what’s  that? 

Hetty.  Somebody  coming  back. 

Zeb.  Oh,  law  !  Suppose  it’s  dad.  What  shall  I  do  ? 
Hetty.  Why,  give  him  a  piece  of  your  mind. 

Zeb.  But  not  neow.  He’s  cornin’  this  way,  Hetty. 
I’m  sorry  to  lose  your  company,  but  I’m  going  under  the 
sofa.  (  Crawls  under  so/a,  head  to  r.) 

Hetty.  Well,  I’m  not  going  to  stay  here  and  be  found 
out.  ( Exit ,  l.) 

Zeb.  I  wonder  who  on  airth  that  is,  anyhow. 

Enter  Isaac  and  Polly,  r. 

Isaac.  Safe  inside.  Now,  Polly,  just  get  a  light,  for 
it’s  dark  as  pitch. 

Polly.  No,  indeed  I  sha’n’t !  I  wouldn’t  get  a  light 
for  the  world.  If  pa  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  come 
home,  he’d  be  sure  to  make  a  fuss  about  it. 

Isaac.  All  right.  I’m  contented.  Here’s  the  sofa 
Sit  down,  and  let’s  have  a  httle  quiet  chat. 

Polly.  Of  course.  But  von’t  you  have  a  glass  of 
cider  ? 

Isaac.  No,  I  thank  you.  You  know  I’m  opposed  t« 
its  use. 

Polly .  Yes,  1  do  know  it;  but  I  forgot  it  at  the 

moment. 


33  “A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 

Isaac ,  Polly,  do  you  know  I  love  you  very  dearly? 

Polly .  I  hope  you  do,  Isaac. 

Isaac.  And  Pm  going  to  marry  you  Thanksgiving 
night,  if  you’ll  consent  to  make  me  happy. 

Polly .  You  know  I’ll  consent.  But  father  — 

Isaac.  Is  not  inclined  to  at  present ;  but  I’ll  find  a 
way  to  make  him,  I  think.  You  remember  my  reading 
a  letter  here  this  afternoon  ? 

Polly.  Yes,  from  a  friend  of  yours  in  Boston. 

Isaac.  Telling  me  that  somebody  had  been  ordering 
whiskey-barrels,  with  a  little  whiskey  left  in. 

Polly.  Yes,  I  remember. 

Isaac.  I  did  not  give  you  all  the  information  I  had, 
for  my  friend  gave  me  the  name  of  the  party. 

Polly.  Who  was  it? 

Isaac.  Erastus  Applejack. 

Polly.  My  father ! 

Isaac.  Your  father,  who  has  helped  to  make  a  law 
which  he  is  now  breaking  by  swindling  of  the  meanest 
description. 

Polly.  Why,  everybody  is  buying  his  cider. 

Isaac.  Scenting  the  whiskey  concealed  in  it. 

Polly.  Oh,  this  is  too  bad  !  What  will  you  do? 

Isaac.  Prove  his  swindling,  and  then  give  him  the 
choice,  to  relinquish  its  sale,  or  public  exposure,  with  a 
slight  condition  added. 

Polly.  Which  I  can  guess.  ( Noise  outside .)  Who 
is  that?  Oh,  dear  1  it  must  be  father  returned.  What 
shall  we  do  ? 

Isaac .  I  don’t  want  to  see  him  just  yet,  I’d  bette) 
jo  by  the  back  way. 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.”  30 

Polly  Well,  come  quick:  this  way.  ( Exeunt ,  l.) 

Zeb.  What  a  darued  scamp  dad  is,  anyway !  1 

guess  I’ll  git  eout,  and  crawl  up  stairs.  No  :  there’s 
somebody  coming. 

Enter  Hans  Drinker,  r. 

Hans  By  donder  !  I  never  did  see  such  cider.  Vhere 
iih  everypody.  In  der  peds,  I  s’pliose.  Veil,  I  vill  noi 
trouble  dem  at  all,  but  vill  go  to  de  cellar  and  gits  mire 
mugs  of  cider.  (G'oes,  l.)  By  donder,  de  door  isn 
locked,  and  ter  key  stolen  mit  somepody.  ( Noise  outside  , 
R.)  Hark !  I  hear  some  peeples  coom  dis  way.  By 
donder !  vhat  vill  I  do  mit  myself?  Dey  vill  tink  me 
somepody  else,  coomed  for  der  money.  I  vill  hide  for 
mineself,  till  dey  pe  gone  some  more.  ( Crawls  under 
sofa ,  head  l.)  By  douder !  dere  ish  somepody  here 
pefore  me. 

Zeb.  What  in  thunder  do  you  want  here  ? 

Hans.  Vhat  you  vant  mit  yourself,  mine  frien’. 

Zeb.  Clear  out,  or  I’ll  break  every  bone  in  your  body. 

Hans.  Take  care  mit  yourself,  mine  frien’,  take  care 
mit  yourself. 

Zeb.  Keep  yeour  boots  out  of  my  mouth. 

Hans.  By  donder !  mine  frien’,  you  preak  your  toe 
mit  miae  nose. 

Zeb.  Keep  still.  There’s  somebody  coming. 

Hans.  By  donder  !  I  yust  lose  mine  cider. 

Enter  Patience,  followed  by  Deacon  PEACHBLOsaojf . 

Patience.  Sh  — 

Zeb.  Sh  — ■ 

Hans.  Sh  — 


40  “a  little  more  cider,” 

Patience.  Don’t  speak  so  loud. 

Deacon.  My  friend,  I  didn’t  speak  at  all. 

Patience.  Then  it  must  have  been  the  echo.  Ccmi 
in  quietly. 

Deacon .  This  is  very  mysterious. 

Patience.  My  brother  objects  to  a  light  after  certain 
hours,  so  we  are  compelled  to  be  very  cautious  iu  our 
movements.  You’ll  find  a  seat  here  on  the  sofa.  (Dea¬ 
con  sits.)  I’m  so  much  obleeged  to  yeou,  deacon,  for 
seein’  on  me  home.  Yeour  polite  attentions  are  very 
agreeable.  Sha’n’t  I  git  yeou  something,  deacon? 

Deacon.  Well,  now  you  mention  it,  a  little  cider 
would  be  very  acceptable. 

Hans.  By  donder,  dat  cider  ! 

Zeb.  Sh  — !  Keep  yer  hoofs  still,  Dutchy. 

Patience.  I’ll  bring  yeou  some  directly.  Excuse  me 
a  moment.  ( Exit ,  l.) 

Deacon.  Miss  Patience  is  a  pleasant  body  ;  and  if  she 
wasn’t  quite  so  old,  a  little  handsomer,  and  had  a  little 
more  money,  I  believe  I  should  be  inclined  to  make  her 
Mrs.  Peachblossom,  number  two.  But  then  there  is 
her  brother,  making  money  by  his  cider.  I  declare,  it’s 
really  worth  thinking  on. 

Enter  Patience,  l.,  with  mug  of  cider ;  draws  the  table 

up  to  sofa  and  sits. 

Patience.  There,  deacon,  there’s  a  mug  of  the  best 
cider  yeou  ever  drank.  I  took  it,  myself,  out  of  a  new 
barrel  that  I  never  saw  afore. 

Deacon  ( taking  mug).  Thank  you,  Pa  —  Miss  Pa* 
lienee.  Here’s  your  good  health.  (Drinks.)  Splendid  i 


<#  A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


41 


v 

Splendid !  I  never  tasted  such  cider  before  in  all  m y 
life.  ( Hands  cider  to  Patience,  who  sets  it  on  table.') 

Patience.  I  thought  yeou’d  like  it.  Then  yeou  ap¬ 
prove  of  cider-drinking. 

Deacon.  Certainly,  Miss  Patience.  It  is  a  healthy 
and  necessary  beverage.  It  is  Nature’s  own  brewing  for 
the  lips  of  thirsty  travellers  in  this  journey  of  life.  1 
believe  in  temperance,  Miss  Patience  ;  in  strict  adhesion 
to  total  abstinence  from  all  that  intoxicates  ;  but  cider  is 
a  beverage  prepared  by  Nature  herself,  and  to  abstain 
from  drinking  cold  water  would  be  as  consistent  as  to 
refrain  from  drinking  cider.  Both  furnished  by  Nature, 
both  harmless.  Miss  Patience,  a  little  more  cider.  (Sht 
passes  mug.) 

Hans.  By  donder  !  my  t’roat  ish  dry  ash  never  vas. 

Zeb.  I  wish  I  was  eout  of  this.  The  Dutchman  is 
tr^wding  me  to  death. 

Deacon.  Splendid !  Splendid !  Never  tasted  such 
dder. 

Hans.  By  donder,  dat  ish  true  ! 

Patience.  Deacon,  don’t  you  find  it  lonesome  at  yeour 
louse  ? 

Deacon.  Yes,  indeed.  Now  that  my  beloved  Abigail 
tas  gone,  I  do  feel  lonesome. 

Patience.  I  should  think  yeou  would.  I  should  think 
that  a  man  of  yeour  loving  disposition  would  be  anxious 
io  fill  the  place  she  vacated  with  some  congenial 
bouI  — 

Deacon.  I  do,  I  do.  I  have  cast  my  eyes  about 
and  almost  decided  to  take  — 

Patience.  Well,  Deacon,  disclose  yeour  feelings  — 

17 


42 


44  A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


Deacon.  A  little  more  cider,  Miss  Patience.  Shi 

l>asses  cider.} 

[fans.  By  donder,  dere  won’t  be  no  cider  in  de  house  1 
Deacon.  Splendid  !  Splendid  !  Sp  —  len  —  did  ! 
That  loosens  my  tongue.  Yes,  Miss  Patience,  deaf 
Mi  ss  Patience,  —  dear  Patience,  —  I  do  long  to  clasp  to 
my  arras  —  a  little  more  cider.  (She  passes  cider.) 
Thank  you.  Here’s  your  jolly  good  health.  (Drinks.) 
Splendid !  Splendid !  Splendid !  That’s  the  nectar 
(hie)  that  Jupiter  sips  (hie).  That’s  glor’us  stuff.  Yes, 
dear  Miss  Cider,  —  I  mean,  Miss  Patience,  —  I’m  a  lone¬ 
some  man.  I’m  a  drefful  lonesome  man.  I  want  some- 
body  at  my  side  (hie)  to  bathe  my  throbbing  brow  (hie), 
to  give  me  —  to  give  rae  —  a  little  more  cider.  (She 
gives  mug.)  Thank  you.  Here’s  your  jolly  good  health. 
{Drinks.)  Splendid !  Splendid !  Splendid ! 

Pat  ience.  (Aside.)  How  strangely  he  acts!  but  I 
believe  he  is  on  the  brink  of  a  proposal. 

Deacon.  Yes,  I  want  to  take  somebody  to  my  heart. 
Yes,  Patience,  —  dear  Patience,  —  dearest  Patience!  I 
want  to  take  you  to  my  heart  (hie),  this  bursting  heart  — 
come  to  these  longing  arms,  and  give  me  —  a  little  more 
cider. 

Patience.  Do  you  ask  me  to  be  your  wife,  Deacon  ? 
Deacon.  Splendid  !  Splendid  !  Splendid  cider  !  Of 
course  I  do  !  Be  my  cider,  —  no,  my  wife  !  I  love  you  ! 
I  adore  you  !  (hie)  I  worship  you!  I  want  you,  and  — 
a  little  more  cider. 

Patience.  (Jumping  up.)  Good  gracious  !  Deacon  ! 
[Pulls  him  up.)  Listen!  There’s  a  man  under  the 
«ofa.  My  foot  touched  him.  We  shall  be  murdered  I 
What  shall  I  do? 


48 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.” 

Deacon.  Come  to  these  arms  (hie).  Who  cares  fbi 
the  man  (hie)?  let  ’em  come  on  (hie)  !  these  arms  shall 
protect  you.  This  manly  bosom  shall  protect  you  (hie)  ; 
a  little  more  cider  shall  protect  you  (hie). 

'  Patience.  ( Screams  and  throws  herself  into  Deacon  s 
arms.)  A  man  !  A  man  !  Help  !  Help  !  Help  ! 

(Polly,  Isaac,  and  Hetty  appear  at  door ,  r.,  with 

light ;  Applejack,  l.) 

Applejack.  Well,  well,  what’s  the  matter  here?  Good¬ 
ness  gracious  !  Sister  Patience  in  a  man’s  arms,  and 
that  man  Deacon  Peachblossom  ! 

Deacon.  Tha’s  wha’s  the  marrer,  Flapplejack.  She 
flew  to  these  protecting  arms,  Flapplejack  ;  and  these 
protecting  arms,  Flapplejack,  clasped  her  in  a  warm  em¬ 
brace,  Flapplejack  ;  and  that’s  wha’s  the  marrer. 

Applejack.  Why,  Deacon,  what  brought  you  to  this 
condition  ? 

Deacon.  A  little  more  cider,  Flapplejack. 

Patience.  O  Brother  Erastus !  there’s  a  man  under 
the  sofa ! 

Applejack.  Man  under  the  sofa?  We’ll  have  him 
eout,  then,  quick ! 

( Seizes  Hans’s  leg ,  and  pulls  him  out.  Hans  at  the  same 

time  seizes  Zee’s  leg,  and  they  are  brought  out  together. 

Hans  sits  on  floor ,  r.  Zeb,  l.) 

Applejack  (between).  Zeb,  what  on  airth  are  yeou 
under  the  sofa  for? 

Zeb.  Well,  I  don’t  know  ;  but  I  s’pect  it's  the  s«in« 
reason  that  set  the  deacon  on  it. 


44 


fiJi  LITTLE  MOLE  CIDEB.” 


‘Applejack.  What’s  that? 

Zeb.  A  little  more  eider. 

Applejack .  Hans  Drinker,  what  sent  you  there  ? 

Hans.  By  donder !  Meester  Applejack,  I  never  se« 
such  wedder  pefore  for  der  next  five  years !  I  vas  so 
dry  ash  never  vash  all  de  time,  and  so  I  coomed  here  for 
vat  you  axed  me. 

Applejack.  What  was  that? 

Hans.  A  leetle  more  cider. 

Applejack.  Will  somebody  please  to  explain  this? 

Deacon.  Ov  course,  Flapplejack.  Ps  all  right.  I’m 
goin’  to  make  Miss  Patience  Mrs.  Peachblossom  (hie), 
sure’s  you  live ! 

Applejack.  Pm  glad  of  that. 

Isaac.  And  Pm  going  to  make  your  daughter  Mrs. 
Peachblossom,  Mr.  Applejack. 

Applejack.  No,  you’re  not.  I’ll  never  give  my  con¬ 
sent. 

Isaac.  I  think  you  will,  especially  as  I’ve  got  the 
name  of  the  party  who  buys  empty  whiskey-barrels,  one- 
third  full. 

Applejack.  You  have,  —  well,  you’re  a  pretty  good 
feller.  Take  her  and  make  her  happy. 

Zeb.  I’m  going  to  make  Miss  Hetty  Mason  Mrs. 
Applejack  to-morrow. 

Applejack.  No,  you’re  not.  I  forbid  the  banns. 

Zeb.  Too  late,  dad.  Pm  posted  on  all  the  tricks  of 
the  cider-trade ;  and,  if  you  interfere  with  my  arrange 
ments,  I’ll  expose  it  all. 

Applejack.  Well,  well,  get  married  to-night  if  you 
choose.  I  don’t  care.  I’m  tired  of  you,  I  want  8 
change. 


11  A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER.”  45 

Deacon..  Then  let’s  have  some  more  cider. 

Isaac .  Mr.  Applejack,  there  are  two  interests  veri 
Jear  to  my  heart :  one  is  the  temperance  cause,  the  othe? 
is  your  daughter  Polly.  Duty  to  the  one  demands  that  J 
should  expose  the  deceit  you  have  practised  on  our  com* 
munity.  Love  for  the  other  equally  demands  that  I 
should  conceal  it.  I  can  compromise  with  duty  ouly 
through  your  instrumentality.  Promise  me  to  give  up 
the  sale  of  cider  entirely,  and  I  am  silent.  Refuse,  and 
not  even  my  love  for  Polly  shall  prevent  my  exposing  the 
whole  transaction. 

Applejack.  Why,  Isaac,  there’s  money  in  it. 

Isaac .  Not  honest  money,  Mr.  Applejack.  You  see 
what  a  fool  one  mug  of  it  has  made  of  my  father. 

Applejack.  Well,  I  know;  but  Patience  must  have 
got  at  the  wrong  barrel,  and  given  him  the  full  strength 
of  whiskey. 

Isaac.  What  do  you  say  ?  Is  it  a  bargain  ? 

Applejack.  Well,  yes  :  there  is  no  other  course  ;  so 
I’ll  e’en  make  a  merit  of  necessity. 

Isaac.  You’ll  never  repent  of  it.  The  Devil  prowls 
%round  the  earth  in  many  disguises.  Don’t  you  help  to 
eover  him  up,  Mr.  Applejack. 

Deacon.  Well,  say  (hie)  :  a  little  less  talk,  and  a  lit¬ 
tle  more  cider,  —  that’s  my  idea. 

Isaac.  Not  to-night,  father.  Applejack  has  shut  up 
ihop  for  the  night. 

Applejack.  Yes,  for  the  night.  Call  round  to-mor* 
row,  friends,  and  you  shall  see  me  dispose  of  it. 

Zeb.  Well,  Hetty,  we’re  going  to  get  married,  afiei 

&U. 


46 


“A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


tf 

Hetty.  Yes,  Zeb  ;  but  I’m  not  going  to  have  any  of 
(hut  cider  round  my  house. 

Deacon.  Patience,  when  shall  the  wedding  come  off  f 

Patience.  Law,  Deacon,  don’t  ask  me  afore  all  these 
folks. 

Isaac.  I’ll  tell  you,  father.  Thanksgiving  Day,  when 
Polly  and  I  are  made  one.  Hey,  Polly? 

Polly.  I’m  willing,  if  father  is. 

Applejack.  Well,  as  you  seem  to  have  settled  i\l 
among  yourselves,  I  don’t  think  my  consent  is  needed, 

Hans.  By  donder,  Meester  Applejack !  dere’s  one 
ting  you  forgot. 

Applejack.  No,  I  haven’t.  It’s  what  you  want,  but 
cannot  have.  No  more  cider  here,  Hans.  We  are 
going  to  banish  it.  I  can  only  hope  that  our  kind  friends 
will  go  home  satisfied  that  the  article  least  needed 
was,  —  what  was  it,  Deacon? 

Deacon.  “  A  little  more  cider.” 

Hans.  Petter  ash  never  vash,  py  donder! 

DISPOSITION  OF  CHARACTERS. 

I,  ZEB  AND  HETTY,  POLLY  AND  ISAAC,  ft 

DRAGON  AND  PATTRNC8,  APPIRJACR,  BARS, 


9L  W.  ^tnero's  Pays 

price,  50  Cents?  Cacf) 


THE  MAGISTRATE  ®,arce  *n  Three  Acts.  Twelve  males,  four 

females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  all 
interior.  Plays  two  hours  and  a  half. 

THE  NOTORIOUS  MRS.  EBBSMITF  ?.rra  ?n  Afs 

Eig1-  males, five  females. 

Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  all  interiors  PI?  ys  a  lull  evening. 

THE  PROFLIGATE  Play  in  Four  Acts  ^even  males,  five  females. 

Scenery,  three  interiors,  rather  elaborate  ; 
costumes,  modern.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS  ^arce  in  Three  Acts.  Nine  males,  seven 

females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 
three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  SECOND  MRS.  TANQUERAY  Play  in  Four  Acts.  Eight 

^  males,  five  females.  Cos¬ 

tumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

SWEET  LAYENDER  Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  Seven  males,  four 

females*  Scene,  a  single  interior ;  costumes , 
modern.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  TIMES  Comedy  in  Four  Acts.  Six  males,  seven  females. 

Scene,  a  single  interior ;  costumes,  modern.  Plays  a 

full  evening. 

THE  WEAKER  SEX  Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  Eight  males,  eight 

females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  two 
interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

A  WIFE  WITHOUT  A  SMILE  Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  Five 

males,  four  females.  Costumes, 
modern  ;  scene,  a  single  interior.  Plays  a  full  evening. 


Sent  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price  by 

t 

Walter  iBafeer  8.  Company 

No.  5  Hamilton  Place,  Boston,  Massachusetts 


'  SWwi 


decent  popular  iplaps 


THE  AWAKENING 


THE  FRUITS  OF  ENLIGHTENMENT 


AN  IDEAL  HUSBAND 


Play  in  Four  Acts.  By  C.  H.  Chambers. 
Four  males,  six  females.  Scenery,  not  diffi¬ 
cult,  chiefly  interiors ;  costumes,  modern.  Plays  a  full  evening. 
Price,  50  Cents. 

Comedy  in  Four  Acts. 
By  L.  Tolstoi.  Twenty- 
one  males,  eleven  females.  Scenery,  characteristic  interiors  ;  cos¬ 
tumes,  modern.  Plays  a  full  evening,  liecomraended  for  reading 
clubs.  Price,  25  Cents. 

HIS  EXCELLENCY  THE  GOVERNOR  I 

males,  three  females.  Costumes,  modern ;  scenery,  one  interior. 
Acting  rights  reserved.  Time,  a  full  evening.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Comedy  in  Four  Acts.  By  Oscar  W ilde. 
Nine  males,  six  females.  Costumes,  mod¬ 
ern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  evening.  Acting  rights 
reserved.  Sold  for  reading.  Price,  50  Cents. 

THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  EARNEST  fST  £  T0£t° 

Wilde.  Five  males,  four  females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenes,  two 
interiors  and  an  exterior.  Plays  a  full  evening.  Acting  rights  re¬ 
served.  Price,  50  Cents. 

LADY  WINDERMERE’S  FAN 

males.  _  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full 
evening.  Acting  rights  reserved.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Play  in  Four  Acts.  By  Clyde  Fitch.  Fifteen 
males,  four  females.  Costumes  of  the  eighteenth 
century  in  America.  Scenery,  four  interiors  and  two  exteriors.  Act¬ 
ing  rights  reserved.  Plays  a  full  evening.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  By  M.  B.  Horne. 
Six  males,  four  females.  Scenery,  two 
interiors ;  costumes,  modern.  Professional  stage  rights  reserved. 
Plays  a  full  evening.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Comedy  in  Four  Acts.  By  C.  H. 
Chambers.  Four  males,  thuee  fe¬ 
males.  Scenery,  an  interior  and  an  exterior ;  costumes,  modern. 
Acting  rights  reserved.  Plays  a  full  evening.  Price,  50  Cents. 

A  WOMAti  OF  NO  IMPORTANCE 

seven  females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors  and  an 
exterior.  Plays  a  full  evening.  Stage  rights  reserved.  Offered  for 
reading  only.  ”  Price,  50  Cents. 


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THE  OTHER  FELLOW 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  TEARS 


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No.  5  Hamilton  Place,  Boston,  Massachusetts 


*.  J.  PARKHILL  A  CO..  PRINTERS.  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


PAST  REDEMPTION 

Price,  25  Cents 


Baker's  Edition 
or  Plays 


1@@©«  BY  WALT1B  H.  ©AKISfiS  nft  <«*•* 


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A.  W.  PINERO’S  PLAYS. 

Uniformly  Bound  in  Stiff  Paper  Covers, 

Price,  50  cents  each. 


The  publication  of  the  plays  of  this  popular  author,  made  feasible  by  the  new 
Copyright  Act,  under  which  his  valuable  stage  rights  can  be  fully  protected, 
enables  us  to  offer  to  amateur  actors  a  series  of  modern  pieces  of  the  highest 
class,  all  of  which  have  met  with  distinguished  success  in  the  leading  English 
and  American  theatres,  and  most  of  which  are  singularly  well  adapted  for  ama¬ 
teur  performance.  This  publication  was  originally  intended  for  the  benefit  of 
readers  only,  but  the  increasing  demand  for  the  plays  for  acting  purposes  has 
far  outrun  their  merely  literary  success.  With  the  idea  of  placing  this  excel¬ 
lent  series  within  the  reach  of  the  largest  possible  number  of  amateur  clubs,  we 
have  obtained  authority  to  offer  them  for  acting  purposes  at  an  author’s  roy¬ 
alty  of 

Ten  Dollars  for  Each  Performance. 

This  rate  does  not  apply  to  professional  performances,  for  which  terms  will  be 
made  known  on  application. 


THE  AMAZONS. 


A  Farcical  Romance  in  Three  Acts.  By  Arthur 
W.  Pinero.  Seven  male  and  five  female  char¬ 
acters.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery,  an  exterior 
and  an  interior,  not  at  all  difficult.  This  admirable  farce  is  too  well  known 
through  its  recent  performance  by  the  Lyceum  Theatre  Company,  New  York,  to 
need  description.  It  is  especially  recommended  to  young  ladies’  schools  and 
colleges.  (1895.) 


THE  CABINET  MINISTER. 


Costumes,  modern  society  ;  scenery 
genious  in  construction,  and  brilliant  in  dialogue 


A  Farce  in  Four  Acts.  By 
Arthur  W.  Pinero.  Ten  malt 
and  nine  female  characters 
three  interiors.  A  very  amusing  piece,  in 
(1892.) 


DANDY  DICK. 


A  Farce  in  Three  Acts.  By  Arthur  W.  Pinerc 
Seven  male,  four  female  characters.  Costumes,  moc 
ern  ;  scenery,  two  interiors.  This  very  amusing  piee 
was  another  success  in  the  New  York  and  Boston  theatres,  and  has  been  e: 
tensively  played  from  manuscript  by  amateurs,  for  whom  it  is  in  every  respet 
suited.  It  provides  an  unusual  number  of  capital  character  parts,  is  very  funny 
and  an  excellent  acting  piece.  Plays  two  hours  and  a  half.  (1893.) 


THE  HOBBY  HORSE. 


A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  By  Arthui 
W.  Pinero.  Ten  male,  five  female  char 
acters.  Scenery,  two  interiors  and  an  ex 
terior ;  costumes,  modern.  This  piece  is  best  known  in  this  Country  through  th< 
admirable  performance  of  Mr.  John  Hare,  who  produced  it  in  all  the  principa 
cities.  Its  story  presents  a  clever  satire  of  false  philanthropy,  and  is  full  oi 
interest  and  humor.  Well  adapted  for  amateurs,  by  whom  it  has  been  success 
fully  acted.  Plays  two  hours  and  a  half.  (1892.) 

LADY  ROITMTTFUT  I  A  play  in  Four  Acts-  By  Arthur  w 

I  VJ  I  >  1  IT  j  pxNEBo.  Eight  male  and  seven  female  char 

“ " — ■ — - ——————— ———J  acters.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  fou 

interiors,  not  easy.  A  play  of  powerful  sympathetic  interest,  a  little  sombre  ir 
key,  but  not  unrelieved  by  humorous  touches.  (1892.) 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS. 


BY 

GEORGE  M.  BAKER, 


BOSTON 


PAST  REDEMPTION 


Copyright,  1875,  by  George  M.  Baker. 
Copyright,  1903,  by  Emily  F.  Baker  (In  Renewal). 


NOTE. 

“  In  the  Sweet  By-and-by,”  the  song  called  for  by  the  text,  has  inevi¬ 
tably  become  rather  stale  as  a  lyric  by  the  lapse  of  time.  Of  course, 
any  other  song  can  be  easily  and  advantageously  substituted  for  it. 
While  this  piece  calls  for  elaborate  scenery,  having  been  intended 
primarily  for  professional  performance,  it  can  be  pro  luced  in  a  simpler 
manner,  if  desired.  The  elaborate  third  act  may  be  worked  with  a  flat 
having  two  doors,  if  preferred.  In  that  case,  Harry  and  Jessie 
appear  at  c.  door  at  end  of  act,  instead  of  in  the  picture  above. 


CHARACTERS. 


i 


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John  Maynard,  a  New-England  farmer. 

Harry  Maynard,  his  son. 

Robert  Thornton,  a  speculator. 

Tom  Larcom,  a  farmer. 

Nat  Harlow,  a  country  trader. 

Hanks,  a  farmer  (can  be  taken  frattt  0rck*sfam% 

Cart.  Nathan  Bragg. 

Stub,  a  negro,  Maynard’s  help. 

Murdoch,  a  friend  of  Thornton. 

Daley,  a  barkeeper. 

Huskers,  male  and  female. 

Four  Gentlemen,  patrons  of  the  ha?. 

Mrs.  Maynard,  John’s  wife. 

Mrs.  Charity  Goodall,  John’s  sister. 

Jessie  Maynard,  an  adopted  daughter. 

Kitty  Corum,  “The  girl  with  two  strings  to  her  bow.® 

Chorus  of  Ladies  for  Act  III. 

plot  for  bill. 

Act  I.  —  Husking  at  the  Old  Horsc. 

Act  II.  —  Past  Redemption. 

Act  III.  —  Charity’s  Quest. 

Act  IV.  —  Thanksgiving  at  the  Old  Home. 

“In  the  Sweet  By  and  By,”  incidental  music  to  be  arranged  from  the  bj 
f,  P.  Webster,  published  by  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.,  Boston  and  New  Yo  k. 

There’s  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day, 

And  by  faith  we  can  see  it  afar, 

For  the  F ather  waits  over  the  way 
To  prepare  us  a  dwelling-place  there. 

Chorus  :  —  In  the  sweet  by  and  by 

We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore. 

(Repeat) 


I 


$ 


4 


COSTUMES 


COSTUMES. 

John  Maynard.  Act  I.  Mixed  pants  and  vest,  blue  striped  shirt,  collar  rolled 
rver  vest,  without  necktie,  straw  hat,  bald  gray  wig,  heavy  gray  side-whiskers. 
Act  II.  and  IV.  Add  a  dark  coat. 

Harry  Maynard.  Act  I.  Neat  gray  suit,  with  game-bag,  felt  hat,  leggings, 
Act  III.  White  shirt  without  collar,  rusty  black  pants,  and  coat  out  at  elbows, 
nnshorn  face,  hollow  eyes.  Act  IV.  Light  pants,  dark  vest  and  coat,  with 
white  overcoat,  high-colored  handkerchief  thrown  about  the  neck,  felt  hat. 

Robert  Thornton.  Act  I.  Light  gray  suit,  leggings,  game-bag,  felt  hat,  heavy 
watch-chain,  and  full  black  beard  and  moustache.  Act  II.  Handsome  black  suit, 
black  hat,  light  overcoat  on  his  arm.  Act  III.  Fashionable  suit,  with  a  liberal 
display  of  jewelry.  Act  IV.  Dirty  black  pants,  torn  at  the  knee,  white  shirt, 
soiled  and  ragged,  showing  a  red  shirt  beneath ;  rough  grizzled  beard  and  wig ; 
pale  and  haggard ;  dark,  ragged  coat. 

Tom  Larcom.  Act  I.  and  II.  Rough  farmer’s  suit.  Act  III.  Flashy  mixed 
suit,  false  moustache  and  chin-whiskers.  Act  IV.  Neat  suit  with  overcoat  and 
felt  hat. 

Nat  Harlow.  Neat  mixed  business  suit;  a  little  dandified. 

Hanks  and  Huskers.  Farmer’s  rough  suits. 

Capt.  Bragg.  Dark  pants,  white  vest,  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  military 
stock  and  dickey ;  tall  felt  hat ;  bald  gray  wig,  and  military  whiskers. 

Murdoch.  Fashionable  dress. 

Daley.  Dark  pants  and  vest,  white  apron,  sleeves  rolled  up,  no  coat. 

Stub.  Act  I.  Gray  pants,  blue  striped  shirt.  Act  III.  Dark  pants,  white  vest, 
red  necktie,  standing  collar,  black  hat,  short  btack  coat.  Acts  II.  and  IV.  Same 
as  first  with  the  addition  of  a  coat. 

Mrs.  Maynard.  Acts  I.  and  II.  Cheap  calico  dress.  Act  IV.  Brown  dress, 
with  white  apron,  collar  and  cuffs.  Gray  wig  for  all. 

Charity ,  age  about  thirty -five.  Act  II.  Pretty  muslin  dress,  with  a  white 
apron,  tastefully  trimmed,  lace  cap,  light  wig.  Act  III.  Gray  dress  handsomely 
trimmed,  gray  waterproof  cloak.  Act  III.  Dark  travelling  dress,  handsome 
cloak  and  hat. 

Jessie.  Act  I.  Muslin  dress,  with  collar  and  cuffs.  Act  II.  Something  d 
the  same  kind.  Act  III.  Handsome  dress  of  light  color.  Act  IV.  Gray  travel¬ 
ling  dress,  with  cloak  and  hat 

Kitty.  Act  I.  Light  muslin  dress.  Act  II.  Something  of  the  same  kind. 
Act  IV.  Red  dress,  white  collar  and  cuffs,  shawl  and  hat 

Chorus  of  Ladies  for  Act  III.  Dark  and  light  dresses,  with  “clouds”  of  dil 
terent  colors  about  their  heads. 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS. 


Act  I.  —  A  Husking  at  the  Old  Home. 

Scene.  —  A  barn.  In  flat,  large  door  to  roll  back  l.,  closed; 
above  door ,  hay-mow ,  practicable  staging ,  loose  hay  piled 
upon  it ;  over  that,  window .  through  which  moonbeams 
stream,  l.,  stalls  with  harness  suspended from  pegs ,  bench 
on  which  are  two  basins  and  towels,  r.,  bins,  above  stalls 
and  bins ,  r.  and  l.,  hay-mow  with  hay  {painted),  r.  c., 


which  are  seated  A. 


two  benches 


Tom  Larcom,  b.  Nat  Harlow,  and  between  them  four 
farmers ,  three  girls ;  another  girl  standing  c. ;  beside  her 
on  floor,  kneeling,  a  farmer  picks  up  the  husks  thrown 
by  the  buskers,  and  puts  them  in  a  basket.  A  small  pile  of 
corn,  d.,  which  the  occupants  of  the  benches  are  at  work 
on,  throwing  the  corn  into  bins ,  r.  :  the  husks  behind.  Just 
back  of  b,  Hanks  seated  on  a  barrel  with  violm  playing, 
“ In  the  sweet  by  and  by  A  Stub  leaning  against  wing, 
L.,  I  e.  listening;  stool  r.,  i  e.  ;  red  lanterns  hung  r.  and 
L. ,  red  light  from  footlights.  Hanks  plays  the  air 
through  during  the  rising  of  curtain. 

Stub.  Golly!  hear  dat  now,*will  you?  D-d-dat  what  I 
call  music  in  de  har,  fur  it  jes  make  my  liar  stan’  on  end, 
yes,  it  does.  And  I  feel — I  feel  jes  as  dough  I  was  skew¬ 
ered  onto  dat  ar  fiddle-bow,  an’  bein’  drawed  frou  a  sea  ob 
bilin’  merlasses.  Golly,  so  sweet ! 

Nat.  There’s  a  first-class  puff  for  you,  Hanks,  from  the 
mouth  of  a  critic —  with  a  black  border 


6 


FAST  &&DZMFTXON. 


% 

Tom.  You  do  beat  all  nater,  Hanks,  with  the  fiddle, 
your  hand  is  as  cute,  and  your  ear  as  fine,  as  though  the  one 
had  never  held  a  plough,  or  the  other  listened  to  the  jingling 
of  a  cowbell.  Talk  of  your  genuses.  Give  me  the  chap 
that’s  a  Jack  at  any  thing,  from  digging  ninety  tater-hills 
afore  breakfast,  to  sparking  a  pretty  girl  at  ’leven  o’clock 
on  a  starlight  night. 

Stub.  Wid  de  ole  man  cornin’  roun’  de  corner  ob  de 
house  wid  a  double-barrel  rebolver,  “You  scoot  or  I 
shoot.”  Don’t  forget  de  embellishments,  Tom  Larcom. 

(All  Icuigh.) 

Nat.  Ha,  ha!  had  you  there,  Tom. 

Tom.  What  are  you  laughing  at?  If  old  Corum  mis¬ 
took  me  for  a  prowler  one  night,  am  I  to  blame  ? 

Stub.  Coorse  not,  coorse  not,  when  you  didn’t  stop  to 
’lucidate,  but  jumped  de  fence  and  scooted  down  de  road 
hollering  “  Murder  !  ”  (Laugh.) 

Tom  (flinging  an  ear  of  corn  at  Stub).  A  little  more 
ear  and  less  tongue,  Stub. 

Stub  (ducking  his  head).  Don’t  waste  de  fodder.  Had 
ear  enough  dat  night.  Golly!  jes  woke  de  whole  neighbor¬ 
hood. 

Tom.  Ah  !  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth, 

Stub.  By  golly!  you  —  you  found  it  pretty  smoove  run- 
nin’  dat  night. 

Tom  (threatening  Stub).  Will  you  be  quiet  ? 

Stub.  Ob  coorse.  Don’t  waste  de  fodder. 

.  Nat.  Ah,  Tom,  Nature  never  cut  you  out  for  a  lover. 

Tom.  P’r’aps  not;  but  I’ve  got  art  enough  to  cut  you 
out,  Nat,  if  you  do  make  up  to  my  property,  Kitty  Corum. 
(Enter  Kitty,  r.,  overhearing  last  words.) 

Kitty.  Indeed!  Your  property!  I  like  that.  And 
when,  pray,  did  you  come  into  possession? 

Tom.  That’s  for  you  to  say,  Kitty.  I’m  an  expectant 
heir  as  yet.  Don’t  forget  me  in  your  will,  Kitty. 

Nat,  Don’t  write  vour  will  in  his  favor. 

* 

Kitty.  “When  a  woman  wills  she  wills:  depend  on’t; 

And  when  she  won’t  she  won’t,  and  there’s  the  end  on’t” 

Tom  (sings).  “If  I  could  write  my  title  clear.” 

Nat.  Give  me  the  title,  Kitty. 

Tom.  I’d  give  you  a  title  —  Counter-jumper,  Yardstick! 
that’s  about  your  measure.  You  talk  about  titles :  why, 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


7 


all  you  are  good  for  is  to  measure  tape  and  ribbons,  cut 
“  nigger-head,”  shovel  sugar,  and  peddie  herrings  for  old 
Gleason.  Bah  !  I  smell  soap  now. 

Nat  ( jumping  7ip).  You  just  step  outside,  and  you  shall 
smell  brimstone,  and  find  your  measure  on  the  turf,  Tom 
Larcom. 

Kitty.  There,  there,  stop  that!  I’ll  have  no  quarrelling 
Supper’s  nearly  ready,  and  the  corn  not  finished. 

Tom.  We’ll  be  ready  for  the  supper,  Kitty.  If  I  could 
only  find  a  red  ear. 

Kitty.  And  if  you  could? 

Tom.  I  should  make  an  impression  on  those  red  lips  of 
yours  that  would  astonish  you. 

Kitty.  Indeed!  It  would  astonish  me  more  if  you  had 
the  chance.  (Laugh.)  But  where’s  Harry  Maynard? 

Tom.  Off  gunning  with  Mr.  Thornton.  He  said  he’d  be 
back  in  time  for  the  husking :  they  must  have  lost  their  way. 

Kitty.  His  last  night  at  home,  too. 

Stub.  Yas,  indeed.  Off  in  de  mornin’,  afore  de  broke 
oh  day.  I’s  gwine  to  drive  dem  ober  to  de  steam-jine  sta¬ 
tion.  Miss  Jennie  gwine  to  see  him  off;  ’spect  she’ll  jes  cry 
her  eyes  out  cornin’  home. 

Tom.  Well,  I  can’t  see  the  use  of  Harry  Maynard’s 
trottin’  off  to  the  city  with  this  Mr.  Thornton.  Let  well 
enough  alone,  say  I.  Here’s  a  good  farm,  and  a  smart, 
pretty  girl  ready  to  share  life  with  him ;  and  yet  off  he  goes 
to  take  risks  in  something  he  knows  nothing  about. 

Kitty.  Don’t  say  a  word  against  Mr.  Thornton  ;  he’s 
just  splendid. 

Chorus  of  Girls.  Oh,  elegant ! 

Tom.  There  it  is!  Vanity  and  vexation!  here’s  a  man 
old  enough  to  be  your  father.  Comes  up  here  in  his  fine 
clothes,  with  a  big  watch-chain  across  his  chest,  and  a  seal 
ring  on  his  finger,  and  you  girls  are  dead  in  love  with  him  at 
first  sight. 

Kitty.  Tom,  you’re  jealous.  Harry  Maynard  is  not 
content  to  settle  down  here ;  he  wants  to  see  the  world,  and 
I  like  his  spunk.  If  I  was  a  man  /  would  get  the  polish  of 
city  life. 

Stub.  So  would  I,  so  would  I.  Yas,  indeed;  get  de 
polish  down  dar.  Look  at 'Joe  Trash;  he  went  down  dar, 
lie  did.  New  suit  ob  store  clo’s  onto  him,  and  forty  dollars 
in  his  calf-skin.  He  come  back  in  free  days  polished  right 
rut  ob  his  boots. 


8 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Tom.  Well,  I  s’pose  it’s  out  of  fashion  not  to  like  this 
Thornton,  but  there’s  something  in  the  twist  of  his  waxed- 
end  mustache,  and  the  roll  of  his  eye,  that  makes  me  feel 
bad  for  Harry. 

Kitty.  You  needn’t  fear  for  Harry.  He  won’t  eat  him. 

Stub.  No,  sir,  he’s  not  a  connubial :  he’s  a  gemblum. 

Tom.  Ah  !  here’s  the  last  ear,  and,  by  jingo  !  it’s  a  red 
one. 

Chorus.  Good  for  you,  Tom  !  good  for  you  ! 

Nat.  I’ll  give  you  a  dollar  for  your  chance. 

Tom.  No,  you  don’t,  Nat;  I’m  in  luck.  —  Now,  Kitty,  I 
claim  the  privilege.  A  kiss  for  the  finder  of  the  red  ear. 
(A  ll  rise.) 

Kitty.  Not  from  me,  saucebox. 

Nat.  Run,  Kitty,  run  !  (Kitty  runs  in  and  out  among 
the  huskers,  Tom  in  pursuit.) 

Tom.  It’s  no  use,  Kitty;  you  can’t  escape  me.  ( She 
runs  dowfi  R.  corner j  as  Tom  is  about  to  seize  her ,  she 
stoops ,  and  runs  across  stage ,  catches  Stub  A)7  the  arms ,  and 
whirls  him  round.  Tom,  in  pursuit ,  clasps  Stub  in  his 
arms.) 

Stub.  “  I’d  offer  thee  dis  cheek  ob  mine.”  If  you  want 
a  smack  take  it.  I  won’t  struggle. 

Tom  ( strikes  his  face  with  hand).  How’s  that  for  a 
smack  ? 

Stub.  Dat’s  de  hand  widout  de  heart:  takes  all  de 
bloom  out  ob  my  complexion.  ( Goes  across  stage  holding 
on  to  his  face ,  a)id  exits  R.  Kitty  runs  through  crowd 
again ,  co?nes  R.,  Tom  in  pursuit) 

Tom.  It’s  no  use,  Kitty:  you  must  pay  tribute. 

Kitty.  Never,  never!  ( Runs  across  to  L.,  and  then  up 
stage  to  back.  Door  opens ,  and  enter  Harry  Maynard 
and  Thornton,  equipped  with  guns  and  game-bags  j  Kitty 
runs  into  Harry’s  arms.) 

Harry.  Hallo!  iust  in  time.  You’ve  the  red  ear,  Tom, 
so,  as  your  friend,  I’ll  collect  the  tribute.  {Kisses  Kitty.) 

Kitty  {screams).  How  dare  you,  Harry  Maynard  ! 

Tom.  Yes,  Harry  Maynard,  how  dare  you? 

(Thornton,  Harry,  Kitty,  Tom,  and  Nat  come  down ; 
others  carry  back  the  benches ,  and  clear  the  stage;  then  con¬ 
verse  in  groups  at  back.) 

Harry.  Don’t  scold,  Tom.  It’s  the  first  game  that  has 
crossed  my  path  to-day:  the  first  shot  I’ve  made.  So  the 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


9 


corn  is  husked,  and  I  not  here  to  share  your  work.  We’ve 
.  had  a  long  tramp,  and  lost  our  way  ( goes  to  r.  with  Thorn¬ 
ton  ;  they  divest  themselves  of  their  bags ,  and  lean  thei? 
guns  against  bin .  2d  entranced) 

Tom  (l.  c  ).  Empty  bags  !  Well,  you  are  smart  gunners  • 
not  even  a  rabbit. 

Harry  (r.  c.  Thornton  sits  on  stool ,  r.).  No,  Tom; 
the)'  were  particularly  shy  to-day,  so  I  had  to  content  myself 
with  a  deer,  your  dear,  Tom.  ( All  laugh ;  Nat,  l.,  very 
loud ’  T om  threatening  him.) 

Kitty  (c.).  His  dear,  indeed!  I’ll  have  you  to  under¬ 
stand  I’m  not  to  be  made  game  of. 

Harry.  No,  dear,  no  one  shall  make  game  of  you;  but 
keep  a  sharp  lookout,  for  there’s  a  keen  hunter  on  the  track, 
and  when  Tom  Larcom  flings  the  matrimonial  noose  — 

Kitty.  He  may  be  as  lucky  as  you  have  been  to-day, 
and  return  empty-handed. 

Tom.  Don’t  say  that,  Kitty;  haven’t  I  been  your  de¬ 
voted— 

Kitty.  Fiddlesticks  !  ( pushes  him  back ,  and  comes  to  L. 
c.)  If  there  is  any  thing  I  hate,  it’s  sparking  before  com¬ 
pany. 

Nat  (l.).  And  there’s  where  you’re  right,  Kitty.  As 
much  as  I  love  you,  I  would  never  dare  to  be  so  outspoken 
before  company. 

Tom.  Oh,  you’re  a  smart  one,  you  are  !  ( Enter  Stub,  r.) 

Stub.  Supper’s  onto  de  table,  and  Miss  Maynard,  she 
says,  says  she,  you’re  to  come  right  into  de  kitchen,  eat  all 
you  like,  drink  all  you  like,  an’  smash  all  de  dishes  if  you 
like ;  an’  dere’s  fourteen  kinds  ob  pies,  an’  turnobers,  an’ 
turn-unders,  an’  cold  chicken,  an’  —  an’  —  cheese  — 

Harry.  That  will  do,  Stub.  My  good  mother  is  a  boun¬ 
tiful  provider,  and  needs  no  herald.  So,  neighbors,  take 
your  partners;  Hanks  will  give  you  a  march,  and  Mr. 
Thornton  and  I  will  join  you  as  soon  as  we  have  removed 
the  marks  of  the  forlorn  chase. 

Stub.  Yas,  Massa  Hanks,  strike  up  a  march:  some¬ 
thing  lively.  Dead  march  in  Saul;  dat’s  fus  rate. 

Tom  (c.).  Kitty,  shall  I  have  the  pleasure?  ( Offers  his 
left  arm  to  Kitty.) 

Nat  (l.).  Miss  Corum,  shall  I  have  the  honor?  ( Offers 
his  right  arm  to  Kitty.)  < 

Kitty  ( between  them ,  looks  at  each  one ,  turns  up  het 


IO 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


nose  at  Tom,  and  takes  Nat’s  arm).  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Harlow.  I’ll  intrust  this  property  to  you. 

Nat.  For  life,  Kitty  ? 

Kitty.  On  a  short  lease.  {They  go  up  c , face  audience ; 
others  pair ,  and  fall  in  behind  them) 

Tom  (c.).  Cut,  —  a  decided  cut  I  must  lay  in  wait  for 
Yardstick  when  this  breaks  up,  and  I  think  he  will  need 
about  a  pound  of  beefsteak  for  his  eyes  in  the  morning. 
{Goes  l.  and  leans  dejectedly  against  wing.  Music  strikes 
up,  the  march  is  made  across  stage  once ,  and  off  r.,  Stub 
strutting  behind.) 

Harry  (crosses  l.).  Why,  Tom,  don’t  you  go  in? 

Tom.  Certainly.  Come,  Hanks,  Hanks.) 

They’ll  want  your  music  in  there,  and  I’m  just  in  tune  to 
play  second  fiddle.  ( They  exeunt  R.,  arm  in  arm) 

Harry  (goes  to  bench  l.,  and  washes  hands).  Now,  Mr. 
Thornton,  for  a  wash,  and  then  we’ll  join  them.  (Thornton 
keeps  his  seat  in  a  thoughtful  attitude.  Harry  comes 
down)  Hallo!  what’s  the  matter?  Homesick? 

Thornton  (laughs).  Not  exactly;  but  there’s  some¬ 
thing  in  this  old  barn,  these  merry  huskers,  this  careless 
xiappy  life  you  farmers  lead,  has  stirred  up  old  memories, 
until  I*  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out  with  that  melancholy 
song,  “  Oh,  would  I  were  a  boy  again  !  ” 

Harry.  Now,  don’t  be  melancholy.  That  won’t  chime 
with  the  dear  old  place ;  for,  though  it  has  not  been  free 
from  trouble,  we  drive  all  care  away  with  willing  hands  and 
cheerful  hearts. 

Thornton.  It  is  a  cheery  old  place,  and  so  reminds 
me  of  one  I  knew  when  I  was  young ;  for,  like  you,  I  was  a 
farmer’s  boy. 

Harry.  Indeed  !  you  never  told  me  that. 

Thornton.  No  :  for  ’tis  no  fond  recollection  to  me,  and 
I  seldom  refer  to  it.  I  did  not  take  kindly  to  it,  so  early 
forsook  a  country  life  for  the  stir  and  bustle  of  crowded 
cities.  But,  when  one  has  reached  the  age  of  forty,  ’tis 
time  to  look  back. 

Harry.  Not  with  regret,  I  trust:  for  you  tell  me  you 
have  acquired  wealth  in  mercantile  pursuits,  and  so  pictured 
the  busy  life  of  the  city,  that  I  am  impatient  to  carve  my 
fortune  there. 

Thornton.  ’And  you  are  right.  The  strong-armed, 
clear -brained  wanderers  from  the  country  carry  off  the  grand 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


II 


prizes  there.  You  are  ambitious  :  you  shall  rise;  and,  when 
you  are  forty,  revisit  these  scenes,  a  man  of  wealth  and 
influence. 

Harry.  Ah,  Mr.  Thornton,  when  one  has  a  friend  like 
you  to  lead  the  way,  success  is  certain.  I  am  proud  of  your 
friendship,  and  thankfully  place  my  future  in  your  keeping. 

Thornton.  That  shows  keen  wit  at  the  outset.  Trust 
me,  and  you  shall  win.  {Rises.)  But  I  am  keeping  you 
frcm  your  friends,  and  I  know  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  are 
anxiously  looking  for  you.  {Goes  to  bench ,  and  washes  hands) 

Jessie  {outside  l.,  sings), — 

“  In  the  sweet  by  and  by, 

We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore,”  &c. 

Harry.  Ah!  my  “sweet  by  and  by”  is  close  at  hand. 
{Enter  Jessie,  r.,  with  pail) 

Jessie.  O  you  truant!  {Runs  to  him.)  Now* don’t 
flatter  yourself  that  I  came  in  search  of  you.  Do  you  see 
this  pail  ?  this  is  my  excuse. 

Harry.  ’Tis  an  empty  one,  Jessie.  I  am  very  sorry 
you  have  been  anxious  on  my  account;  but  I’m  all  ready, 
so  let’s  in  to  supper. 

Jessie.  Not  so  fast,  sir:  the  pail  must  be  filled.  I’m 
going  for  milk. 

Harry.  Then  “I’ll  go  with  you,  my  pretty  maid.”  — 
You’ll  excuse  me  a  moment,  Mr.  Thornton. 

Jessie.  Mr.  Thornton!  —  Dear  me,  I  didn’t  see  you! 
Good  evening. 

Thornton.  Good  evening,  Miss  Jessie. 

Jessie.  Are  you  very,  very  hungry? 

Thornton.  Oh,  ravenous ! 

Jessie.  Then  don’t  wait,  but  hurry  in,  or  I  won’t  be 
responsible  for  your  supper :  buskers  are  such  a  hungry 
set.  —  Come,  Harry. 

Harry.  Don’t  wait,  Mr.  Thornton:  it  takes  a  long 
time  to  get  the  milk  ;  don’t  it,  Jessie  ? 

Jessie.  Not  unless  you  tease  me  —  but  you  always  do. 

Harry.  Of  course,  I  couldn’t  help  it;  and  tease  and 
milk  go  well  together.  {Exeunt  Jessie  and  Harry,  r„ 
Thornton  stands  c.  looking  after  them) 

Thornton.  Yes,  yes,  ’tis  a  cheery  old  place.  Pity  the 
storm  should  ever  beat  upon  it ;  pity  that  dark  clouds  should 
ever  obscure  its  brightness;  yet  they  will  come.  For  the 


U.  OF  ILL  LIB. 


12 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


first  time  in  a  life  of  passion  and  change,  this  rural  beautj 
has  stirred  my  heart  with  a  longing  it  never  felt  before.  I 
cannot  analyze  it.  The  sound  of  her  voice  thrills  me ;  the 
sight  of  her  face  fascinates  me ;  the  touch  of  her  hand 
maddens  me ;  and,  with  it  all,  the  shadow  of  some  long-for¬ 
gotten  presence  mystifies  me.  This  must  be  love.  For 
I  would  dare  all,  sacrifice  all,  to  make  her  mine.  She  is  be¬ 
trothed  to  him.  He  must  be  taken  from  her  side,  made  un¬ 
worthy  of  her,  made  to  forget  her.  The  task  is  easy  to  one 
skilled  in  the  arts  of  temptation.  Once  free,  her  heart  may 
be  turned  towards  me.  ’Tis  a  long  chase :  no  wonder  I  am 
melancholy,  Harry  Maynard;  but  there’s  a  keen,  patient 
hunter  on  the  track,  who  never  fails,  never.  ( Enter  John 
Maynard,  r.) 

John  Maynard.  Well,  well,  here’s  hospitality:  here’s  — 
hospitality  with  a  vengeance.  That  rascal  Harry  has  de¬ 
serted  you,  has  he  ?  —  you,  our  honored  guest.  It’s  too  bad, 

too  bad. 

Thornton.  Don’t  give  yourself  any  uneasiness  about 
me,  old  friend.  Harry  lias  left  me  a  moment  to  escort  a 

young  lady. 

Maynard.  Ah,  yes,  I  understand:  Jessie,  our  Jessie, 
the  witch  that  brings  us  all  under  her  spells.  No  wonder 
the  boy  forgot  his  manners  ;  but  to  desert  you  — 

Thornton.  Don’t  speak  of  desertion;  you  forget  I  am 
'me  of  the  family. 

Maynard.  I  wish  you  were  with  all  my  heart.  I  like 
you,  Mr.  Thornton.  I  flatter  myself  I  know  a  gentleman, 
when  I  meet  him.  You  came  up  here,  looked  over  my 
stock,  and  bought  my  horses  at  my  own  price,  no  beating 
down,  no  haggling;  and  I  said  to  myself,  He’s  a  gentleman, 
for  gentlemen  never  haggle.  So  I  say  I  like  you  ( gives  his 
hand),  and  that’s  something  to  remember,  for  John  May¬ 
nard  don’t  take  kindly  to  strangers. 

Thornton.  I  trust  I  shall  always  merit  your  good 
opinion. 

Maynard.  Of  course  you  will ;  you  can’t  help  it. 
There’s  our  Harry  just  raves  about  you,  and  you’ve  taken  a 
fancy  to  him.  I  like  you  for  that  too.  Then  you  are  going 
to  take  him  away,  and  show  him  the  way  to  fortune  by  your 
high  pressure,  bustle  and  rush,  city  ways.  Not  just  the  notion 
1  wanted  to  get  into  his  head;  but  he’s  ambitious,  and  I’ll 
not  stand  in  his  way.  He’s  our  only  boy  now.  There  was 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


*3 


another ;  he  went  down  at  the  call  of  his  country,  a  brave 
noble  fellow,  and  fell  among  the  first:  and  he  died  bravely: 
he  couldn’t  help  it,  for  he  was  a  Maynard.  But  ’twas  a  hard 
blow  to  us.  It  made  us  lonely  here;  and  even  now,  when 
.  the  wind  howls  round  the  old  house  in  the  cold  winter 
nights,  mother  and  I  sit  silent  in  the  corner,  seeing  our  boy’s 
bright  face  in  the  fire,  till  the  tears  roll  down  her  cheeks, 
and  I  —  I  set  my  teeth  together,  and  clasp  her  hands,  and 
whisper,  He  died  bravely,  mother,  —  died  for  his  country  like 
a  hero,  —  like  a  hero. 

Thol.nton.  Ah  !  ’tis  consoling  to  remember  that. 

Maynard.  Yes,  yes.  And  now  the  other,  our  only  boy, 
goes  forth  to  fight  another  battle,  full  of  temptation  and 
danger.  Heaven  grant  him  a  safe  return  ! 

Thornton.  Amen  to  that !  But  fear  not  for  him.  1 
have  a  regard,  yes,  call  it  a  fatherly  regard ;  and  it  shall  be 
my  duty  to  guard  him  among  the  temptations  of  the  city. 

Maynard.  That’s  kind;  that’s  honest.  I  knew  you 
were  a  gentleman,  and  I  trust  you  freely. 

Thornton.  You  shall  have  a  good  account  of  him  ;  and 
’twill  not  be  lonely  here,  for  you  have  a  daughter  left  to 
comfort  you. 

Maynard.  Our  Jessie,  bless  her!  she’s  a  treasure. 
Sixteen  years  ago,  on  one  of  the  roughest  nights,  our 
Harry,  then  a  mere  boy,  coming  up  from  the  village,  found 
a  poor  woman  and  her  babe  on  the  road  lying  helpless  in  the 
snow.  He  brought  her  here:  we  recognized  her  as  the 
daughter  of  one  of  our  neighbors,  a  girl  who  had  left  home, 
and  found  work  in  the  city.  This  was  her  return.  Her 
unnatural  father  shut  the  door  in  her  face,  and  she  wandered 
about  until  found  by  Harry.  She  lingered  through  the 
night,  speechless,  and  died  at  sunrise.  I  sought  the  father, 
but  he  had  cast  her  out  of  his  heart  and  home  ;  for  he  be¬ 
lieved  her  to  be  a  wanton.  Indignant  at  his  cruelty,  I  struck 
him  down;  for  I’m  mighty  quick-tempered,  and  can’t  stand  a 
mean  argument.  I  gave  the  mother  Christian  burial,  took 
the  child  to  my  heart,  and  love  her  as  if  she  was  my  own. 
As  for  him,  public  opinion  drove  him  from  our  village  ;  and 
her  child  is  loved  and  honored  as  he  could  never  hope  to  be. 

Thornton.  And  your  son  will  marry  her  with  this 
stkln  upon  her  ? 

Maynard.  Stain?  what  stain?  Upon  her  mother’s 
finger  was  a  plain  gold  ring ;  and,  though  the  poor  thing-’s 


*4 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


lips  were  silent,  her  eyes  wandered  to  that  ring  with  a  mean* 
ing  none  could  fail  to  guess.  She  was  a  deserted  wife  ;  and, 
even  had  she  been  all  her  father  thought  her,  what  human 
being  has  a  right  to  be  relentless,  when  we  should  forgive 
as  we  all  hope  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  come,  here  I  am  chattings 
away  like  an  old  maid  at  a  quilting.  Come  in,  and  get  your 
supper,  for  you  must  be  hungry :  come  in.  ( Exeunt  R. 
Enter  l.,  Harry,  with  his  ar?n  round  Jessie,  the  pail  in 
his  hand) 

Harry.  Yes,  Jessie,  ’tis  hard  to  leave  you  behind;  but 
our  parting  will  not  be  for  long.  Once  fairly  embarked  in 
my  new  life,  with  a  fair  chance  of  success  before  me,  I  shall 
return  to  seek  my  ready  helper. 

Jessie.  Harry,  perhaps  you  will  think  me  foolish,  but  1 
tremble  at  your  venture.  Why  seek  new  paths  to  fortune 
when  here  is  all  that  could  make  our  lives  happy  and  con¬ 
tented  ? 

Harry.  But  it’s  so  slow,  Jessie;  and,  with  the  best  of 
luck,  I  should  be  but  a  plodding  farmer.  To  plough  and  dig, 
sow  and  reap,  year  in  and  year  out,  —  ’tis  a  hard  life,  all 
bone  and  muscle  :  to  be  sure,  rugged  health  and  deep  sleep  ; 
Dut  there  is  excitement  and  bustle,  quick  success  and  rousing 
fortunes.  Ah,  Jessie,  if  one  half  my  schemes  work  well, 
you  shall  be  a  lady. 

Jessie.  To  be  your  own  true,  loving  wife,  your  ever 
ready  helper,  is  all  I  ask.  O  Harry,  if  you  should  forget 
me  in  all  this  bustle  ! 

Harry.  Forget  you?  Never:  in  all  my  hopes  you  are 
the  shining  light ;  in  all  my  air-built  castles,  which  energ)i 
should  make  real  and  substantial  ones,  you  are  enthroned 
my  queen. 

Jessie.  Enthrone  me  in  your  heart:  let  me  be  an  influ¬ 
ence  there,  to  shield  you  from  temptation,  and,  come  fortune 
or  failure,  I  shall  be  content. 

Harry.  An  influence,  Jessie  :  hear  my  confession.  Un¬ 
known  to  you,  I  stood  beneath  your  window  last  night,  as 
you  sat  looking  up  at  the  moon,  singing  the  song  I  love,  “  In 
the  sweet  by  and  by.”  I  thought  how  soon  we  must  part, 
and  your  sweet  voice  brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  Jessie,  1 
believe,  that,  were  I  so  weak  as  to  fall  beneath  temptation, 
in  the  darkest  hour  of  misery,  the  remembrance  of  that 
voice  would  call  me  back  to  you  and  a  better  life. 

Jessie.  You  will  not  forget  me? 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


*5 


Harry.  Oh,  we  are  getting  melancholy.  (Smiles.)  Why 
should  /  not  fear  a  rival  ? 

Jessie.  Now  you  are  jesting,  Harry.  Do  I  not  owe  my 
life  to  you  ? 

Harry.  Hush,  hush !  that  is  a  forbidden  subject,  and 
all  you  owe  to  me  has  been  paid  with  interest  in  the  gift  of 
your  true,  loving  heart.  (They  pass  off,  R.  Enter  Capt, 
Bragg,  c.) 

Capt.  Bragg.  Well,  I  never  —  no,  never.  If  Parsor 
Broadnose  himself,  in  full  black,  with  all  his  theological 
prognostications  to  back  him,  had  said  to  me,  Capt.  Bragg, 
did  you  ever  ?  I  should  have  fixed  my  penetrating  eyes  upor 
him,  and  answered  boldly,  No,  never.  Slighted,  absolutely, 
undeniably,  unquestionably  slighted  !  I,  Capt.  Nathan  Bragg 
distinguished  for  my  martial  deportment,  my  profound 
knowledge,  my  ready  wit,  yes,  every  thing  that  adds  a 
charm  to  merrymaking;  I,  ex-commander  of  that  illustrious 
corps,  the  Lawless  Rangers,  that  rivals  the  grandest  Euro* 
pean  regiments  in  drill  and  parade,  —  slighted  at  a  mean, 
contemptible  little  husking.  Fact,  by  jingo !  But  I’m  not 
o  be  slighted  :  I  won’t  be  slighted.  I  am  here  to  testify  my 
profound  contempt  for  a  slight.  If  John  Maynard  has  a 
husking,  and  forgets  to  invite  the  grand  central  figure  on 
such  occasions,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  grand  central  figure  to 
overlook  the  little  breach  of  etiquette,  and  appear  to  con¬ 
tribute  to  the  happiness  of  its  fellow  townsmen.  There  is 
an  air  of  gloom  about  this  place,  all  owing  to  my  absence. 
They’re  in  to  supper:  I’ll  join  them,  to  cheer  the  dull  hearts 
and  (going  r.) —  Hallo!  guns,  guns.  (Takes  up  one.) 
There’s  a  beauty.  This  reminds  me  of  my  warlike  days 
at  country  muster,  and  the  Lawless  Rangers.  Ah,  those 
rangers  !  every  man  with  a  Roman  nose,  six  feet  high,  and 
a  dead  shot :  not  a  man  would  miss  the  dead  eye  at  one 
hundred  paces,  —  if  he  could  help  it.  Ah  !  I  can  see  ’em  now 
as  I  gave  the  order  :  ready  —  aim  — fire  (raising  gun  and fir¬ 
ing  as  he  speaks .)  Murder!  the  blasted  thing  was  loaded. 
(Drops  it,  and  staggers  across  stage  to  l.,  tremblmg.  A  fowl 
drops  from  r.,  at  the  shot.  Enter  r.,  Mr.  Maynard, 
Stub,  Harry,  Jessie,  Tom,  and  Mrs.  Maynard.) 

Maynard.  Who  fired  that  gun?  Ah,  Capt.  Bragg, 
what’s  the  matter  ? 

Stub  (taking  up  fowl).  Dat  ar  poor  ole  rooster  am  a 
gone  goose.  Dat’s  what’s  de  matter. 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


16 

Harry  (, taking  up  gun).  Captain,  have  you  been  med¬ 
dling  with  my  gun  ? 

Mrs.  Maynard.  Of  course  he  has :  he’s  always  med¬ 
dling. 

Capt.  Mrs.  Maynard,  that’s  an  absurd  remark.  It’s 
all  right:  one  of  my  surprises.  You  must  know  I  wanted  a 
rooster  for  to-morrow’s  dinner.  I’m  very  fond  of  them: 
there’s  such  a  warlike  taste  about  them.  And  we  are 
a  little  short  of  roosters ;  my  last  orus,  being  a  little  belli¬ 
gerent  this  morning,  walked  into  Higgins’s  yard,  and  en¬ 
gaged  in  deadly  combat:  so  deadly  that  Higgins’s  fowl  was 
stretched  a  lifeless  corse  upon  the  ground:  for  Bragg’s 
roosters  always  lick,  always.  But  in  spite  of  my  earnest 
protest,  despite  the  warlike  maxim,  Spoils  to  the  victor  be¬ 
long,  Higgins  shot  my  rooster  and  nailed  him  to  his  barn 
door  like  a  crow,  and  his  crow  was  gone.  Fact,  by  jingo. 

Maynard.  Yes:  but  what’s  that  got  to  do  with  my 
rooster  ? 

Capt.  Well,  I  wanted  a  rooster:  so  says  I  to  myself, 
Maynard’s  got  plenty,  he  can  spare  one  just  as  well  as  not; 
so  I’m  come  to  borrow  one.  Well,  I  found  you  had  com¬ 
pany,  and  not  wishing  to  disturb  you,  and  seeing  a  gun 
handy,  I  singled  out  my  dinner  roosting  aloft  there,  raised 
the  gun,  —  you  know  I’m  a  dead  shot,  —  shut  my  eyes  — 

Tom.  Shut  your  eyes!  Is  that  one  of  your  dead  shot 
tactics  ? 

Capt.  Shut  one  eye,  squinted,  of  course,  that’s  what 
I  said,  and  fired.  The  result  of  that  shot  is  before  you 
If  you  will  examine  that  fowl,  you  will  find  that  he  is  shot 

clean  through  the  neck. 

Stub.  He’s  shot  all  ober;  looks  jes  for  all  de  world  1  ke 
a  huckleberry  puddin’. 

Maynard.  Well,  captain,  I  call  this  rather  a  cool  pro¬ 
ceeding. 

Capt.  Ah,  you  flatter  me :  but  coolness  is  a  characteris¬ 
tic  of  the  Braggs.  When  I  raised  that  company  for  the 
war,  the  Lawless  Rangers,  I  said  to  those  men,  Be  cool ; 
don’t  let  your  ardor  carry  you  too  far. 

Tom.  Yours  didn’t  run  you  into  battle,  did  it,  captain? 

Capt.  I  couldn’t  run  anywhere.  Just  when  the  call 
came  for  those  men,  after  I  had  prepared  them  for  battle, 
and  longed  to  lead  them  to  the  field,  rheumatism  —  in  the 
legs  too  —  blasted  all  my  hopes,  and  left  me  behind.  But 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


17 


my  soul  was  with  them,  and,  if  they  achieved  distinction, 
they  owed  it  all  to  my  early  teaching—  to  the  Bragg  they 
left  behind.  ( Struts  up  stage.) 

John  Maynard  {to  Thornton).  Ah  !  he’s  a  sly  old  fox. 

Thornton  {tappbig  his  head).  A  little  wrong  here. 

Maynard.  No,  he’s  a  cool,  calculating  man,  but  as  vain 
as  a  peacock. 

Capt.  ( coming  down).  Sorry  I  didn’t  know  you  had  com¬ 
pany.  Wouldn’t  have  intruded  for  the  world. 

Maynard.  Tt’s  all  right,  captain.  Join  us:  we  were 
expecting  you.  {To  Thornton.)  I  can  say  that  truly,  for 
he’s  always  popping  in  where  he’s  not  wanted. 

Capt.  Ah !  thank  you.  A-husking,  I  see.  What’s  the 
yield  ? 

Maynard.  Excellent.  My  five-acre  lot  has  given  me 
two  hundred  bushels.  That’s  what  I  call  handsome. 

Capt.  Pooh  !  you  should  see  my  corn.  There’s  nothing 
like  Bragg’s  corn.  My  three-acre  lot  gave  me  three  hundred 
bushels,  and  every  other  ear  was  a  red  one. 

Chorus.  Oh ! 

Capt.  Fact,  by  jingo!  (Nat  and  Kitty  enter  r.,  fol¬ 
lowed  by  buskers.) 

Maynard.  Come,  boys,  get  ready  for  the  dance.  —  Moth¬ 
er,  you  take  the  captain  in  to  supper. 

Mrs.  Maynard.  Come,  captain,  you  must  be  hungry. 

Capt.  {coming  to  r.).  Thank  you,  I  could  feed  a  bit.  But 
don’t  stir :  I  can  find  the  table ;  and,  when  I  do  find  it,  I 
shall  do  full  justice  to  your  fare,  or  I  am  no  Bragg.  {Exit 
r.  Harry  rolls  back  the  big  door ,  others  put  out  ' anterns . 
Moonlight  streams  upon  the  floor.  Change  footlights .) 

Thornton  {to  Jessie).  Miss  Jessie,  shall  I  have  he 
honor  of  dancing  with  you  ? 

Jessie.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Thornton.  {Takes  his  arm ,  ana 
they  go  up.  Nat  and  Kitty  come  down  c.) 

Nat.  Ah,  Kitty,  now  for  the  dance.  Of  course  you  will 
•rpen  the  ball  with  me. 

Kitty  {hanging  on  his  arm ,  looks  around,  and  nods  til 
Tom  ;  he  comes  down  on  the  other  side).  Did  I  promise  yov 
a  dance  to-night,  Mr.  Larcom? 

Tom  {sulkily).  I  believe  you  did:  but  I  ain’t  pa.  ncular. 

Kitty.  But  I  am. 

Nat.  Kitty,  dance  with  me. 

Kitty.  I  shall  do  just  as  Mr.  Larcom  says;  ii  he  does 
not  wish  me,  why  — 


i8 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Tom.  Oh,  Kitty,  you  know  I  do,  you  know  I  do  !  ( Takes 
her  arm. ,  and  whirls  her  up  stage.  N  at  goes  over  to  L.,  and 
leans  against  wing  watching  theml) 

Harry.  Now,  boys,  take  your  partners  for  Hull’s  Vic¬ 
tory.  —  Come,  mother,  (i Gives  Mrs.  Maynard  his  arm ,  and 
goes  to  door ,  taking  the  lead.  Tom  and  Kitty,  Thornton 
and  Jessie  next,  others  form  in  front  of  than.  Stub  goes 
to  l.  Dance,  Hull's  Victory .  When  Tom  and  Kitty 
come  in  front ,  Tom  talks  with  Mr.  Maynard,  who  stands 
r,,  and  Kitty  ?nakes  signs  to  Nat:  he  comes  over ,  takes 
her  arm ,  and  they  go  tip  and  off,  l.  u.  e.,  appearing  soon 
after  in  the  loft  at  back  ;  they  sit  on  the  hay ,  and  watch  the 
dancing.  The  dance  is  continued  some  time ,  Stub  dancing 
by  himself  l.  When  it  is  Tom’s  turn  to  dance ,  Stub  slips 
into  set ,  and  gives  his  hand.  Tom  dances  a  little  while 
before  finding  his  mistake  ;  then  pushes  Stub  back ,  looks 
round  and  up,  descries  Kitty  and  Nat.  Goes  off  l.  u.  e. 
Dance  goes  on.  Enter  Capt.  Bragg,  r.,  with  a  chicken-bone 
in  one  hand,  and  a  piece  of  pie  in  the  other  ;  stands  watch¬ 
ing  the  dancers.  Tom  appears  in  loft,  behind  Nat.  Nat 
puts  his  arm  round  Kitty,  and  is  about  to  kiss  her;  Tom 
pulls  him  back  upon  the  hay,  and  pummels  him. 

Nat.  Help!  Murder!  Murder!  [Dance  stops .) 

Capt.  Hallo !  Thieves !  Burglars !  [Seizes  the  othet 
gun ,  raises  it,  and fires.  Fowl  drops  fro?n  l.  Stub  picki 
it  up;  Mr.  Maynard  seizes  Captain’s  arm.) 

Stub.  Dere’s  anoder  rooster  dead  shot. 

Capt.  Fact,  by  jingo  ! 

Tableau. 

Capt.  r.  c.,  with  gun  raised;  Maynard  c.,  with  hand 
on  gun;  Stub  l.,  holding  up  fowl;  others  starting  forward 
watching  group.  Tom  has  Nat  down  in  the  loft  with 
fist  raised  above  him.  Kitty  kneels  r.  of  them ,  with  hff 
apron  to  her  face. 


CUETAfN. 


ACT  II. —  Past  Redemption. 


f  rterior  of  Maynard’s  farm-house .  House  on  r.  with 
porch  covered  with  vines  j  fence  running  across  stage  at 
back ,  with  gateway  c.,  backed  by  road  a?id  landscape. 
L.c.,  large  tree ,  with  bench  running  round  its  trunk; 
trees  L.  Time ,  sunset.  Enter  Tom  fro?n  l.,  through 
gate ,  a  bunch  of  flowers  in  his  hand. 

Tom.  The  same  old  errand:  chasing  that  will-o’-wisp, 
Kitty  Corum,  —  she  who  is  known  as  the  girl  with  two 
strings  to  her  bow ;  who  has  one  hand  for  Tom  Larcom  and 
another  for  Nat  Harlow,  and  no  heart  for  either.  I’m  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  whole  neighborhood ;  but  misery  loves 
company,  and  Nat  is  in  the  same  box.  If  she  would  onb 
say  No,  and  have  done  with  it,  I  believe  I  should  be  happy 
especially  if  Nat  received  the  “No.”  She  won’t  let  either 
of  us  go.  But  she  must.  To-night  I’ll  speak  for  the  last 
time;  I’ll  pop.  If  she  takes  me,  well:  if  not,  I’ll  pop  off 
and  leave  the  field  to  Nat.  Luckily  I  found  out  she  was 
to  help  Mrs.  Maynard  to  day.  Nat  hasn’t  heard  of  it,  and 
no  doubt  he’s  trudging  off  to  old  Corum’s.  Here  she  comes. 
Lay  there,  you  beauties !  (Puts  flowers  on  bench.)  Kitty 
will  know  what  that  means.  (Exit  l.  Enter  Kitty  from 
house.) 

Kitty.  What  a  nice  woman  Mrs.  Charity  Goodall  is,  to 
be  sure !  so  graceful  and  sweet,  not  a  bit  like  her  big 
rough  brother,  John  Maynard.  But  then,  she’s  learned  the 
city  ways.  A  widow,  poor  thing  —  and  not  so  poor,  either; 
for  her  husband,  when  he  died,  left  her  a  consolation  in  the 
shape  of  a  very  handsome  fortune.  (Sees  flowers.)  I  de¬ 
clare,  somebody’s  attentions  are  really  overpowering.  No 
matter  where  I  am,  either  at  home  or  abroad,  when  night 
comes  I  always  find  a  bunch  of  flowers  placed  in  my  way.  Of 

*9 


t  © 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


course  these  are  for  me :  no  one  would  think  of  offering 
flowers  to  Jessie.  Poor  Jessie !  ’tis  eighteen  months  since 
Hairy  Maynard  left  home,  and  six  months  since  a  line  has 
been  received  from  him.  Ah,  well !  this  comes  of  having 
but  one  string  to  your  bow.  I  manage  matters  differently. 
(Sits  on  bench.  Enter  Nat  from  l.,  through  gate j  steps 
behind  tree.)  Now,  I  really  would  like  to  know  who  is  so 
attentive,  so  loving,  as  to  send  me  these  pretty  flowers.  ' 

Nat  (sticks  his  head  round  tree ,  R.).  And  can’t  you 
guess,  Kitty? 

Kitty  (starting).  O  Nat! 

Tom  (sticks  his  head  out  from  L.  Aside.)  O  Nat!  in¬ 
deed,  you  owe  Nat  nothing  for  flowers.  The  mean  sneak ! 

(Retires.) 

Nat  { coming  forward).  Now,  this  is  what  I  call  luck, 
Kitty.  I  heard  you  were  here,  and  I  think  I’ve  taken  the 
wind  out  of  Tom  Larcom’s  sails  to-night.  No  doubt  he’s 
tramping  off  to  your  house  to  find  nobody  at  home.  Ha, 
ha  !  had  him  there.  (Tom  creeps  out ,  and  gets  behind  treei) 

Kitty.  And  so  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  all  these  pretty 
flowers. 

Nat.  Oh !  never  mind  the  posies,  Kitty.  I  have  some¬ 
thing  very  serious  to  say  to  you  to-night.  (Sits  beside  her  R.) 

Kitty.  Very,  very  serious,  Nat? 

Nat.  As  serious,  Kitty,  as  though  I  were  a  prisoner  at 
the  bar  waiting  my  sentence. 

Tom.  Ah!  in  that  case,  there  should  be  a  full  bench, 
Kitty.  (Comes  round  and  sits  on  be?ich ,  l.) 

Nat.  The  deuce!  Tom  Larcom,  what  brought  you 
here  ? 

Tom.  I  came  to  court ;  that  is,  to  see  justice  done  you. 

Nat.  You  be  hanged! 

Tom.  Thank  you:  let  that  be  your  fate;  and  I’ll  be 
transported.  (Puts  his  arm  round  Kitty’s  neck.) 

Kitty.  How  dare  you,  Tom  Larcom?  (Pushes  off  his 
arm.) 

Tom.  It’s  “neck  or  nothing”  with  me  to-night,  Kitty. 

Nat.  Tom,  you  are  taking  unfair  advantage  of  me. 

Tom.  Am  I?  How  about  Kitty’s  posies,  Nat,  that  1 
laid  upon  the  bench  ? 

Kitty.  It’s  you,  then,  Tom.  —  O  Nat!  how  could  you? 

N  at.  I  didn’t :  I  only  asked  you  a  conundrum.  All’s 
fair  in  love.  What’s  a  few  flowers,  any  way  ?  Why,  Kitty, 
smile  upon  me,  and  you  shall  have  a  garden. 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


*S 


Tom.  Yes,  a  kitchen  garden,  with  you  as  the  central 
figure,  —  a  cabbage-head. 

Nat.  Kitty,  you  must  listen  to  me.  I  have  a  serious 
question  to  ask  you. 

Tom.  So  have  I,  Kitty. 

Kitty.  You  too,  Tom?  A  pair  of  serious  questions? 
Shall  I  get  out  my  handkerchief? 

Nat.  Kitty,  I  have  sought  you  for  the  last  time. 

Tom.  Thank  Heaven  ! 

Nat.  Perhaps  — 

Tom.  O,  Kitty,  give  him  your  blessing,  and  let  him 
depart ! 

Nat.  I  am  on  the  point  of  leaving  — 

Tom.  Good-by,  old  fellow.  You  have  our  fondest  wishes 
where’er  you  go.  “’Tis  absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder  ”  — 

Nat.  —  Of  leaving  my  fate  in  your  hands. 

Tom.  Oh,  this  is  touching ! 

Nat.  ’Tis  now  two  years  since  I  commenced  paying 
attention  to  you. 

Kitty.  Stop,  Nat.  This  is  a  serious  business:  let  us 
be  exact,  —  one  year  and  ten  months. 

Tom.  Correct.  I  remember  it  from  the  circumstance  that 
I  had,  about  a  month  before,  singled  you  out  as  the  object 
of  my  adoration. 

Nat.  “  We  met  by  chance.” 

Tom.  “  The  usual  way.”  Oh  come,  Nat,  do  be  original  • 

Nat.  1  worshipped  the  very  ground  you  trod  on  — 

T om.  And  I  the  shoes  you  trod  in :  that’s  one  step 
higher. 

Nat.  From  that  time  — 

Kitty.  One  year  and  ten  months. 

Nat.  From  that  time  1  have  loved  you  sincerely,  devot¬ 
edly,  and  — 

Tom.  Etcettery.  Same  here,  Kitty,  with  a  dictionary 
thrown  in. 

Nat.  You  have  become  very,  very  dear  to  me,  Kitty. 

Tom.  You  are  enshrined  in  this  bosom,  Kitty7. 

Nat.  Without  you,  my  life  would  be  miserable — a 
desert. 

Tom.  And  mine  without  you,  Kitty,  a  Saharah. 

Nat.  I  have  waited  long  to  gain  your  serious  attention 
to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  Now  is  the  appointed  time. 


22 


PAST  REDEMPTION1. 


Tom  (takes  out  watch).  Fifteen  minutes  after  seven  *  the 
very  time  I  appointed. 

Nat.  Let  me  hear  my  sentence. 

Tom.  Put  me  out  of  misery. 

Kitty.  This  is  indeed  serious.  Am  I  to  understand 
that  you  have  both  reached  that  point  in  courtship  when  a 
final  answer  is  required  ? 

Nat.  That’s  exactly  the  point  I  have  reached. 

Tom.  It’s  “going,  going,  gone  ”  with  me. 

Kitty.  You  will  both  consider  my  answer  final5 

Both.  We  will. 

Kitty.  No  quarrelling,  no  teasing,  no  appeal? 

Nat.  None.  (Aside.)  I’m  sure  of  her. 

Tom.  Never.  (Aside.)  Nat’s  sacked,  certain. 

Kitty.  Very  well.  Your  attentions,  Mr.  Harlow,  have 
been  very  flattering,  —  your  presents  handsome. 

Nat.  Well,  I’m  not  a  bad-looking  — 

Kitty.  I  mean  the  presents  you  have  bestowed  upon 
me,  —  calicoes  of  the  latest  patterns,  sweetmeats  in  great 
varieties,  which  you,  as  a  shopkeeper,  have  presented  me 
with. 

Tom  (aside).  At  old  Gleason’s  expense. 

Kitty.  Of  course  I  value  them.  But  a  girl  wants  the 
man  she  loves  to  be  a  hero :  to  plunge  into  rivers  to  rescue 
drowning  men,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Tom  (aside).  And  Nat  can’t  swim.  That’s  hard  on  him. 

Kitty.  And  you,  Mr.  Larcom,  have  been  equally  atten¬ 
tive.  Your  gifts  —  the  choicest  fruits  of  your  orchard,  the 
beautiful  flowers  nightly  laid  within  my  reach  —  all  have  a 
touching  significance.  Still,  as  I  said,  a  girl  looks  for  some¬ 
thing  higher  in  the  man  she  loves.  He  must  be  bold  — 

Nat  (aside).  Tom’s  afraid  of  his  own  shadow.  He’s 
mittened. 

Kitty..  Rush  into  burning  houses,  stop  runaway  horses, 
rescue  distressed  females ;  and  I  am  very  much  afraid 
neither  of  my  devoted  admirers  can  claim  the  title  of  hero. 
So,  gentlemen,  with  many  thanks  for  your  attentions,  I  say 
No. 

Nat.  No!  That  is  for  Tom. 

Tom.  No!  You  mean  Nat. 

Kitty.  I  mean  both.  (Nat  and  Tom  look  at  htr ,  thin 
$t  each  other ,  then  both  rise  and  comi  front) 

Nat.  Tom. 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


»3 


Tom.  Nat. 

N  at.  You’ve  got  the  sack. 

Tom.  You’ve  got  the  mitten. 

Nat.  She’s  a  flirt. 

Tom.  A  coquette. 

Nat.  I  shall  never  speak  to  her  again. 

Tom.  Henceforth  she  and  I  are  strangers.  ( They  shake 
hands,  then  turn  and  go  up  to  her.) 

Both.  Kitty! 

Kitty.  Remember,  no  appeal.  ( They  look  at  her  rue¬ 
fully,  then  come  down. ) 

Nat.  Tom,  I  bear  you  no  ill-will.  Are  you  going  my 
way? 

Tom.  Nat,  you  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  I’m 
going  in  to  see  John  Maynard. 

Nat.  We  shall  be  friends. 

Tom.  In  despair,  yes.  ( They  shake  hands.  Nat  goes 
up  to  gate ,  T om  goes  to  door  R.) 

Nat.  Good-by,  Kitty.  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  I’m 
going  across  the  river.  Should  any  accident  happen,  look 
kindly  upon  my  remains.  ( Goes  off  L.) 

Tom.  Good-by,  Kitty.  I’m  going  in  to  borrow  one  of 
John  Maynard’s  razors ;  they  are  very  sharp.  Should  I 
happen  to  cut  any  thing,  don’t  trouble  yourself  to  call  the 
doctor.  ( Exit  into  house.) 

Kitty.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  They’ll  never  trouble  me,  never. 
They’ll  be  back  before  I  can  count  ten.  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five —  (Nat  appears  l.,  comes  to  gate.  Tom.  comes 
from  house :  they  see  each  other,  turn  and  run  back.)  I 
knew  it.  The  silly  noodles  !  here  they  are  again.  ( Enter 
Jessie,  from  house.)  Didn’t  I  tell  you  my  answer  was 
final  ?  and  here  you  are  again. 

Jessie.  Why,  Kitty,  are  you  dreaming? 

Kitty  {jumping  up).  Bless  me,  Jessie,  is  that  you? 

Jessie.  Have  you  seen  Stub?  has  he  returned  from  the 
office  ?  Ah  !  here  he  is.  {Enter  Stub,  l.,  tnrough  gate ,  de¬ 
jectedly.  Jessie  runs  up  to  him.)  O  Stub,  have  you 
brought  no  letter  ? 

Stub.  Jes  none  at  all,  Miss  Jessie  ;  dat  ar’  post-officer  am 
jes  got  no  heart.  I  begged  an’  begged :  no  use.  Squire 
Johnson,  he  got  his  arms  full,  an’  Miss  Summer’s  a  dozen. 
T  tried  to  steal  one,  but  he  jes  keep  his  eye  onto  me  all  de 
time.  No  use,  no  use. 


*4 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Jessie.  Oh  !  what  can  have  become  of  him? 

Stub.  Dunno’,  Miss  Jessie.  He  was  jes  de  bes’  feller, 
was  Massa  Harry;  an’  now  he’s  gone  an’  done  somfin’,  1 
know  he  has.  When  de  cap’n  what  picked  me  up  in  ole 
Virginny,  in  de  war, — when  he  was  a-dying  in  de  horse- 
fiddle,  says  he  to  me,  says  he,  Stub,  I’m  a-gwine  ;  an’  when 
I’s  gone,  you  jes  get  up  Norf.  You’ll  find  my  brudder 
Harry  up  dar,  an’  you  jes  stick  as  clus  to  him  as  you’s  stuck 
to  me,  an’  you’ll  find  friends  up  dar.  An’  when  it  was  all 
ober,  here  I  come.  An’,  Miss  Jessie,  I  lub  Massa  Harry 
almos’  as  much  as  I  did  de  cap’n;  an’  I’d  do  any  ting  for  him 
an’  you,  who  he  lub  so  dearly. 

Jessie.  I  know  you  would,  Stub.  Heaven  only  knows 
when  he  will  return  to  us.  If  he  comes  not  soon,  my  heart 
will  break.  (IV eep s ;  goes  and  sits  o?i  bench.) 

Stub.  Pore  little  lamb !  She  wants  a  letter :  she  shall 
hab  one  too.  Massa  Harry  won’t  write  :  den,  by  golly,  I’lJ 
jes  make  up  a  special  mail-train,  an’  go  down  dere  to  de 
city,  an’  fotch  one.  It’s  jes  easy  ’nuff  to  slip  down  dere, 
an’  hunt  Massa  Harry  up,  an’  I’ll  do  it.  Say  nuffin’  to  no¬ 
body,  but  slip  off  to-morrow  mornin’  an’  hunt  him  up.  {Exit 
R.,  I.E.) 

Kitty  ( comes  down  from  gate).  Jessie,  here’s  a  surprise. 
Mr.  Thornton  is  coming  up  the  road. 

Jessie  {springing  up).  Mr.  Thornton?  Heaven  be 
praised!  News  of  Harry  at  last!  ( Runs  up  to  gate,  meets 
Mr.  Thornton,  takes  his  hand ;  they  come  down.)  O  Mr. 
Thornton!  Harry,  what  of  Harry? 

Thornton.  Miss  Jessie,  I  am  the  bearer  of  bad  tidings. 
Would  it  were  otherwise  ! 

Jessie.  Is  he  dead?  Speak:  let  me  know  the  worst ;  I 
can  bear  it.  - 

Thornton.  Be  quiet,  my  child.  He  is  not  dead;  better 
if  he  were,  for  death  covers  all  the  evils  of  a  life,  —  death 
wipes  out  all  disgrace. 

Jessie.  Disgrace?  Oh,  speak,  Mr.  Thornton!  why  is 
he  silent?  what  misfortune  has  befallen  him? 

Thornton.  The  worst,  Jessie.  Perhaps  T  should  hide 
his  wretched  story  from  you ;  but  I’m  here  to  tell  it  to  his 
friends,  and  you  are  the  dearest,  the  one  who  trusted  him 
as  none  other  can.  Jessie,  the  man  you  loved  has  been 
false  to  you,  to  all.  He  has  abused  the  trust  I  placed  in 
him.  He  has  become  a  spendthrift,  a  libertine,  a  gambler, 
and  a  drunkard. 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


25 


Jessie.  I  will  not  believe  it:  ’tis  false.  Harry  Maynard 
is  too  noble.  Mr.  Thornton,  3*011  have  been  misled,  or  you 
are  not  his  friend. 

Thornton.  I  was  his  friend  till  he  betrayed  and  robbed 
me.  I  am  his  friend  no  longer.  Jessie,  you  must  forget 
him ;  he  will  never  return  to  his  old  home,  his  first  love. 
He  has  broken  away  from  my  influence :  he  associates  with 
the  vilest  of  the  vile,  and  glories  in  his  shame. 

Jessie.  Stop,  stop!  I  cannot  bear  it. 

Thornton.  Jessie,  you  know  not  how  it  pains  me  to  tell 
you  this ;  but  ’tis  better  you  know  the  worst.  I  have  striven 
nard  to  make  his  path  smooth,  —  to  make  his  wa)r  to  fortune 
easy,  for  your  sake,  Jessie.  For  I,  —  yes,  Jessie,  even  in 
this  dark  hour  I  must  say  it,  —  I  love  you,  as  he  never  could 
love. 

Jessie.  You  —  love  —  me?  You!  Oh!  this  is  blasphe¬ 
my  at  such  a  time. 

Thornton.  I  could  not  help  it,  Jessie.  (Tries  to  take 
her  hand.) 

Jessie.  Do  not  touch  me.  I  shall  hate  you.  Leave  me. 
O  Harry,  Harry !  are  3*ou  lost  to  me  forever  ?  (Staggers 
and  sits  on  bench.) 

Thornton  (aside).  I’ve  broken  the  ice  there.  Rather 
rough  ;  but  she’ll  get  over  it.  Now  for  old  Maynard.  I’d 
sooner  face  a  regiment;  but  it  must  be  done.  (Exit  into 
house.) 

Kitty  (comes  down  to  Jessie).  O  Jessie,  this  is  terrible! 

Jessie.  Don’t  speak  to  me,  Kitty:  leave  me  to  myself. 
'I  know  you  mean  well,  but  the  sound  of  your  voice  is  terri¬ 
ble  to  me. 

Kitty  (comes  down).  Poor  thing!  Who  would  have 
believed  that  Harry  Ma}Tnard  could  turn  out  bad?  I  wish  I 
could  do  something  to  help  her.  I  can,  and  I  will  too. 
Oh,  here’s  Tom!  (Enter  Tom  from  house;  sees  Kitty, 
?fofs,  then  sticks  his  hat  on  one  side ;  crosses  to  L.  whistling.) 

Kitty.  Tom ! 

Tom  (turns).  Eh  !  did  you  speak,  Miss  Corum? 

Kitty.  Yes,  I  did.  Come  here  —  quick  —  why  don’t 
3rou  pay  attention  ? 

Tom.  Didn’t  you  forbid  any  further  attention? 

Kitty.  Pshaw !  no  more  of  that !  Do  you  remember  what 
l  told  you  my  husband  must  be  ? 

Tom.  Yes:  a  sort  of  salamander  to  rush  into  burning 

1 


26 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


houses,  an  amphibious  animal  to  save  people  from  drown 
ing. 

Kitty.  Ahem !  Tom,  to  save  people :  just  so.  Well, 
Tom,  you  can  be  that  hero,  if  you  choose. 

Tom.  Me?  How,  pray? 

Kitty.  Harry  Maynard  has  got  into  trouble  in  the  city, 
he’s  a  drunkard  and  a  gambler,  and  every  thing  that  is  bad. 

Tom.  You  don’t  mean  it ! 

Kitty.  It’s  true.  Now,  he  must  be  saved,  brought 
back  here,  or  Jessie  will  die.  Tom,  go  and  find  him,  and 
when  you  come  back,  I’ll  sacrifice  myself. 

Tom.  Sacrifice  yourself  ? 

Kitty.  Yes,  marry  you. 

Tom.  You  will  consider  him  found.  O  Kitty,  Kitty,  — • 
but  hold  on  a  minute.  Have  you  given  Nat  Harlow  a 
chance  to  be  a  hero  ? 

Kitty.  No,  Tom:  I’m  serious  now.  Find  Harry  May¬ 
nard,  and  you  shall  be  my  hero. 

Tom.  Hooray,  Kitty:  tell  me  all  about  it.  I’ll  be  off  by 
the  next  train.  Come  ( gives  her  his  arm ),  I  can’t  keep 
still :  I  must  keep  moving.  ( Exeunt  L.) 

Jessie.  Lost !  lost  to  me,  and  I  loving  him  so  dearly ! 
You  must  forget  him!  He  said  forget:  it  is  impossible. 
He  loved  me  so  dearly,  too,  before  he  left  this  house  in 
search  of  fortune.  No,  no:  I  will  not  give  him  up;  there 
must  be  some  way  to  save  him.  If  I  only  knew  how ! 
O  Harry,  Harry !  why  do  you  wander  from  the  hearts  that 
love  you?  Come  back,  come  back!  (Covers  her  face  ana 
weeps.  Enter  Charity  Goodall  from  r.,  through  gate.) 

Charity.  Oh,  this  is  delicious!  I’ve  climbed  fences, 
torn  my  way  through  bushes,  and  had  the  most  delight¬ 
ful  frolic  with  Farmer  Chips’s  little  Chips  on  the  hay,  with 
nobody  to  check  my  fun  and  remind  me  of  the  proprieties 
of  life.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  How  my  rich  neighbor,  Mrs.  Gold¬ 
finch,  would  stare  to  see  me  enjoying  myself  in  the  coun¬ 
try  !  Little  I  care  !  I  shall  go  back  with  a  new  lease  of  life, 
a  harvest  of  fresh  country  air,  that  will  last  me  through 
the  winter.  (Sees  Jessie.)  Hey-day,  child,  what’s  the  mat¬ 
ter  ?  (Sits  beside  her.) 

Jessie  (flinging  her  arms  round  Charity’s  neck).  O 
Aunt  Charity!  Harry,  Harry  — 

Charity.  Ah  !  the  truant’s  heard  from  at  last ;  and  not 
the  most  delightful  tidings,  judging  by  vour  tear-stained 
cheeks.  Well,  child,  tell  me  all  about  it 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


27 


Jessie.  He’s  lost  to  us.  He  has  fallen  into  temptation , 
he’s  — 

Charity.  The  old  story.  “  A  certain  man  went  down 
unto  Jericho,  and  fell  among  thieves.” 

Jessie.  O  Aunt  Charity,  how  can  you  be  so  heartless  ! 

Charity.  Heartless,  Jessie!  You  must  not  say  that 
You  know  not  my  story.  Listen  to  me.  One  1  loved 
dearer  than  life  was  ingulfed  in  this  whirlpool.  He  was  a 
brave,  noble  fellow,  who  took  a  poor  country  girl  from  her 
home,  and  made  her  the  mistress  of  a  mansion,  rich  in 
comfort  and  luxury.  For  years  our  life  was  one  of  happi¬ 
ness ;  and  then  a  friend,  a  false  friend,  Jessie,  led  him  into 
temptation,  with  the  base  hope  of  securing  his  riches  by 
his  ruin.  The  friend  failed  to  acquire  the  one,  but  wrought 
the  other.  He  died  ere  he  had  become  the  wretched  sot 
he  hoped  to  make  him ;  died  in  my  arms,  loving  and  repent¬ 
ant.  I  had  his  fortune,  but  my  life  was  blighted.  I  re¬ 
fused  to  be  comforted  until  the  wretchedness  about  me 
brought  me  to  my  senses.  Then  I  sought  in  work,  strong, 
earnest  work,  consolation  for  my  bereavement.  With*  his 
wealth,  I  sought  out  the  wretched,  the  outcasts  of  society ; 
gave  my  aid  to  all  good  work,  and  so  earned  the  title  of  a 
strong-minded  woman.  ’Tis  often  spoken  with  a  sneer, 
that  title,  Jessie ;  but  they  who  bear  it  have  the  world’s  good 
in  their  heart,  thank  Heaven  for  them  all !  And  so  I  go  about 
doing  all  I  can  to  relieve  distress,  the  surest  solace  for  sor¬ 
row,  Jessie;  for  there’s  nothing  so  cheering,  as  relieving  the 
wretchedness  of  others.  So  don’t  call  me  heartless,  Jessie. 

Jessie.  O  Aunt  Charity,  he  was  so  good !  he  loved  me 
so  dearly ! 

Charity.  And  he  has  fallen.  Who  told  you  this  ? 

Jessie.  His  friend.  Mr.  Thornton :  he  is  here  now,  speak¬ 
ing  with  father.  O  dear  aunt !  can  nothing  be  done  to  save 
him  ? 

Charity.  Thornton?  What  Thornton ?  Speak,  Jessie, 
who  is  he  ? 

Jessie.  Here  comes  Mr.  Thornton.  I  will  not  see  him. 
He  has  spoken  to  me  of  love,  —  his  love  for  me,  almost  in 
the  same  breath  in  which  he  told  of  Harry’s  ruin.  Oh,  le 
me  go  !  I  cart  not,  will  not  meet  him.  ( Runs  off  l.) 

Charity.  So,'  so  :  the  friend  of  Harry  makes  love  \x 
his  wife  that  is  to  be,  and  his  name  is  Thornton.  I  am 
curious  to  see  this  frietid.  ( Enter  Thornton  from  housed 


28 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Thornton.  That  job’s  over.  Now  for  Miss  -Jessie 

(Charity  rises.)  Charity  Goodall ! 

Charity.  Yes,  Charity  Goodall,  widow  of  Mark  Good- 
all,  your  friend,  Robert  Thornton. 

Thornton  (aside).  What  fiend  sent  her  here  to  blast 
my  well-laid  plans  ? 

(Capt.  Bragg  appears  r.,  and  leans  on  the  fence .  He  is  a 
little  tipsy.  No  Toodles  business). 

Charity.  So,  sir,  you  are  the  friend  of  my  nephew, 
Harry  Maynard?  here  on  a  mission  of  mercy,  to  break 
gently  to  his  sorrowing  friends  the  news  of  his  downfall  ? 

Thornton.  ’Tis  true. 

Charity.  And  to  console  his  affianced  wife  with  the 
proffer  of  your  affection. 

Thornton.  ’Tis  false! 

Charity.  It  is  the  truth.  I  know  you,  Robert  Thorn¬ 
ton.  Your  work  made  my  life  a  burden.  You  robbed  me 
of  one  I  loved ;  and  now  you  have  wound  your  coils  about 
another  victim. 

Thornton.  You  are  mistaken:  I  sought  to  keep  him 
from  temptation ;  but  he  was  reckless,  and  forsook  me. 

Charity.  .  Where  is  he  now? 

Thornton.  I  know  not;  neither  do  I  care.  He  robbed 
me ;  and,  were  he  found,  I  should  give  him  up  to  justice. 

Charity.  Staunch  friend  indeed !  He  robbed  you?  I 
do  not  believe  it.  I  have  cause  to  mistrust  you.  I  never 
dreamed  you  were  the  friend  of  Harry.  But  now  I  can  see 
your  wicked  scheme.  You  have  him  in  your  power,  but 
beware  !  My  mission  is  to  save.  ( Goes  up  r.)  , 

Thornton  ( coming  to  l.).  Too  late,  too  late.  I  do  not 
fear  you. 

Maynard  (outside,  r.).  Say  no  more :  I  wik  not  seek 
him.  (Enter  from  house,  followed  by  Mrs.  Maynard.) 

Mrs.  Maynard.  O  John,  don’t  say  that !  He  is  our 
only  boy. 

Maynard.  He  has  disgraced  the  name  of  Maynard.  I 
will  not  seek,  I  will  never  allow  him  to  cross  my  threshold. 
He  went  out  a  fnan  :  he  shall  never  return  a  brute.  (Enter 
Capt.  Bragg,  r.,  through  gate) 

Capt.  Now,  done  yer  say  that,  Maynard  (hie).  It’s  dis* 
grace-ful  to  drink.  I  mean  to  get  full.  I  never  got  full.  J 
can  drink  a  gallon,  an’  walk  straight,  I  can  (hie).  But  I’m  a 
Bragg-  I’m  Cap’en  Bragg  of  the  Horse  Marines;  no,  the 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


*9 


ill-ill-lus’rus  Lawless  Rangers,  every  man  —  full  —  full  — 
six —  Now  look  a’  here,  look  a’  me,  if  your  son’s  gone 
to  the  dogs,  don’t  you  give  him  up.  Look  a’  me.  I’m 
Bragg.  I  had  a  son  :  you  know  him  :  went  off  twenty  years 
ago.  Do  I  give  him  up?  Not  a  bit  of  it  (hie).  He’ll  come 
back  one  of  these  days,  rolling  in  his  carriage  ;  I  mean  in 
wealth.  But  then,  he’s  a  Bragg.  We  can’t  all  be  Braggs. 
Come,  le’s  go  down,  and  hunt  him  up.  I  know  all  the  places. 

Maynard.  Not  a  step  will  I  stir.  ( Enter  Jessie,  l.) 
He  has  made  his  bed :  let  him  sleep  in  it.  He  shall  not  dis¬ 
grace  my  house  with  his  presence. 

Jessie  ( runs  to  him,  falls  on  he?'  knees).  No,  no,  father: 
don’t  say  that.  You  will  not  cast  him  off.  Think  what  a 
kind  son  he  was  :  how  he  loved  us  all.  You  will  try  to  save 
him.  father  !  Don’t  say  you  will  not ;  my  heart  will  break. 

Maynard.  Jessie,  you  know  not  how  low  he  has  fallen. 
My  son  of  whom  I  was  so  proud  !  He  has  disgraced 
his  home.  Henceforth  he  is  no  longer  son  of  mine.  I  will 
not  seek  him.  I  have  said  it,  Jessie,  and  John  Maynard 
never  breaks  his  word. 

Jessie  (crosses  to  Mr.  Thornton).  O  Mr.  Thornton! 
you  will  seek  him  :  you  will  save  him  for  my  sake  ? 

Thornton.  He  is  past  redemption.  ’Twere  useless. 

Jessie.  Then  I  will  go  in  search  of  him. 

Maynard.  'You,  Jessie? 

Jessie.  Yes,  I.  He  saved  me,  when  a  babe,  from  the 
pitiless  storm;  now  I  will  seek  him. 

Thornton.  This  is  folly.  He  lurks  with  the  vile  and 
worthless,  in  dens  of  filth  and  vice.  Who  will  lead  you  there  ? 

Charity  (comes  down  c.).  I  will. 

Jessie  {rises  and  runs  into  her  arms).  O  Aunt  Charity! 

Charity.  Yes,  I.  When  man  shrinks  from  the  work 
of  salvation,  let  woman  take  his  place.  Look  up,  child’ 
Foul  treachery  has  insnared  him.  From  the  toils  of  the 
false  friend,  from  the  crafty  arts  of  the  boldest  of  schem¬ 
ers,  we  will  snatch  him  :  from  the  depths  of  despair,  we  will 
save  him.  Past  redemption,  Robert  Thornton?  False. 
While  there  is  life,  there  is  hope  ! 

''Charity  with  her  arms  about  Jessie,  c.  Thornton, 
l.  ;  Capt.  Bragg,  l.  c. ;  Maynard,  r.  c. ;  Mrs.  May¬ 
nard,  r.  Tom  and  Kitty  come  on  r.,  and  stand  behind 
fence,  looking  on,  quietly .) 


ACT  III.  —  Charity’s  Quest. 

f*CENE.  —  An  elegazit  dr  inking- saloon.  In  flat ,  R.  and  L., 
arched  doorways ,  with  steps  leading  up  and  off  R.  and  l.  ; 
between  these  a  mirrored  door ,  closed ,  opening  to  L.,  and 
showing ,  when  open ,  leading  zip  over  archway , 

l.  Over  arch  the  flat  is  painted  on  gauze  for  illumina¬ 
tion.  Three  steps  leading  zip  to  door,  c.,  being  a  part  of 
the  steps  that  lead  off  r.  and  l.  ;  the  whole  flat  handsomely 
gilded.  Bar  running  up  and  down  stage ,  R. ;  behind  bar , 
a  handsome  side-board,  with  decanters ,  glasses,  and  the 
usual  paraphernalia  of  a  bar-room.  Table,  l.  c.,  with 
two  chairs j  l.  of  table  a  lounge,  on  which  Tom  Larcom 
is  stretched,  apparently  asleep.  Thornton  r.,  and  Mur¬ 
dock  l.  of  table ,  seated, ’  bottle  and  glasses  before  them. 
Daley  behind  bar,  and  two  gentlemen,  well  dressed, 
standing  before  it,  drinking.  After  Thornton  speaks 
they  exit  r.,  up  steps. 

% 

Murdock.  Thornton,  you  have  a  princely  way  of  doing 
things,  and  the  luck  of  the  evil  one  himself. 

Thornton.  Shrewdness,  old  fellow.  I’m  an  old  hand 
at  this  sort  of  business,  and  glitter  and  dash  go  a  long  way 
in  sharpening  the  appetites  of  one’s  customers. 

Murdock.  There’s  something  more  than  glitter  about 
this  wine. 

Thornton.  The  wine  is  good,  and  costly  too.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  set  this  before  everybody,  or  the  profits 
would  hardly  come  up  to  my  expectation.  I  never  throw 
pearls  before  swine.  Home-made  wares  pay  the  best  profit. 
Murdock.  Ah  !  you  do  a  little  in  the  way  of  doctoring  ? 
Thornton.  A  great  deal,  Murdock.  I  have  a  ver) 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


31 


good  dispensary  close  at  hand,  and  Maynard  has  made  him- 
seif  decidedly  useful  in  that  branch. 

Murdock.  Maynard  ?  is  that  miserable  sot  of  any  use 
to  you  now  ? 

Thornton.  Oh,  yes  !  I  alone  can  control  him.  Poor 
'devil !  he’s  breaking  up  fast.  It’s  a  pity  such  a  likely  young 
fellow  could  not  let  rum  alone  ;  but  he  would  drink,  and 
will  until  the  end  comes.  ’Twill  not  be  long. 

Murdock.  Where  do  you  keep  him  ?  I’ve  not  seen  him 
about  to-night. 

Thornton.  Close  by,  but  out  of  sight.  Some  of  his 
friends,  a  few  months  ago,  made  a  demonstration  towards 
his  rescue  from  the  pit  into  which  he  had  fallen.  I  believe 
thev  are  now  searching  high  and  low  for  him. 

Murdock.  An  idle  task,  while  he  is  in  your  clutches. 

Thornton.  You’re  right,  Murdock  :  he  stood  between  me 
and  the  dearest  wish  of  my  life.  Meddling  fools  thwarted 
me  in  that;  and  now,  from  sheer  revenge,  I’ll  hold  him 
from  them  all. 

Murdock.  I’d  rather  have  you  for  a  friend  than  an 
euemy.  {Rising.)  Good-night.  I  must  look  after  my  own 
humble  quarters.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  have  your  dash  ! 

Thornton.  There’s  money  in  it,  Murdock.  (Rises.) 

Murdock.  I  believe  you  :  good-night. 

Thornton.  Good-night:  drop  in  again.  (Murdock 
goes  up  and  off  R.,  up  steps.)  Daley,  who’s  that  on  the 
lounge  ? 

Daley  (comes  from  behind  bar).  I  don’t  know  him  :  he 
dropped  in  an  hour  ago,  took  a  drink,  and  rolled  on  to  the 
lounge. 

Thornton.  Well,  rouse  him  up,  and  get  him  out:  that 
don’t  look  respectable.  (Goes  behind  bar /  and  looks  about.) 

Daley  (goes  to  Tom,  and  shake s  him).  Come,  friend, 
rouse  up.  (Another  shake.)  Do  you  hear?  rouse  up  I 

Tom  (slowly  rises  and  looks  at  him).  Rouse  up  ?  wha’s 
that  (hie)  ?  No,  le’s  fill  up  ;  that’s  besser  (hie). 

Daley  (shaking  him).  Well,  get  up  ;  you’re  in  the  way. 

Tom  (sitting  up,  and  looking  at  him).  Say,  wha’s  (hie) 
yer  name  ? 

Daley.  My  name’s  Daley. 

Tom.  Daily  (hie)  what  ?  Times?  Oh,  I  know:  you’re  a 
(hie)  newsboy  (hie),  you  are.  Don’t  want  no  papers.  ( At¬ 
tempts  to  lie  down  again.) 


3* 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Daley.  Come/  come,  this  won’t  do.  Get  up,  I  say ! 

Tom.  I  always  take  (hie)  my  breakfast  in  bed. 

Daley.  You’ll  take  yourself  out  of  this  !  ( Gets  him  on 

to  his  feet.) 

Tom.  Wh-  (hie)  what  you  say,  Mister  Times  ?  Say  (hie), 
le’s  drink  ! 

Daley.  No:  it’s  time  you  were  home. 

Tom.  Home  (hie)?  wha’s  that?  Fools  a  (hie)  to  this? 
{Staggers  across ,  and  clutches  bar.)  I’m  goin’  t’stay  (hie) 
here  forever  and  always  (hie),  forever. 

Thornton.  Oh,  get  him  out,  Daley  ! 

Tom.  Yes,  get  me  out,  Daily,  for  (hie)  exercise.  Take 
the  air  (hie).  Air’s  good  ;  le’s  have  some  sugar  (hic)inmine. 
( Gets  down ,  R.  ;  aside ,  sobered .)  So  he’s  here,  —  May¬ 
nard  is  here.  I’ve  run  the  fox  to  earth  at  last.  {As  beforei) 
Fetch  on  the  drinks,  D-Daily  (hie)  and  a  little  oftener. 

Daley.  Here's  your  bar;  come.  This  way,  this  way. 
{Leads  him  up  to  steps ,  r.) 

Tom  {at  steps ,  turns  round).  Hole  on  a  minute,  D-Dai- 
(hic)  ly;  give  us  your  hand,  D-Daily.  I’ll  be  back  soon 
(hie),  an’  we’ll  never  (hie),  never  (hie)  part  any  more  (hie). 
Good  mornin’,  D-D-aily  (hie),  good  morn.  {Exit  up  steps. 
Thornton  comes  down  to  table ,  l.  ;  Daley  takes  bottles 
and  glasses  from  table  and  goes  behind  bar.  Two  gentlemen 
enter ,  R.,  drink ,  and  go  of'.) 

Thornton  {sits  at  table).  The  luck  of  the  evil  one  ! 
Murdock  is  but  half  right.  The  loss  of  that  girl  is  a  stroke 
of  ill-fortune  that  imbitters  all  my  prosperity.  Get  your 
supper,  Daley  ;  I’ll  look  after  the  bar.  (Daley  exits ,  R^,  up 
steps.)  But  for  the  interference  of  •  Charity  Goodall,  she 
would  have  been  mine.  They  have  not  found  the  missing 
Maynard  yet.  I  have  him  safe :  he  cannot  escape  me. 
{Soft  music.  The  mirrored  door ,  between  entrances  in  flats , 
slowly  opens ,  and  Harry  Maynard,  shrinking  and  trem¬ 
bling,  with  feeble  steps,  comes  down,  closing  the  door  behind 
him.  He  creeps  down  to  Thornton’s  chair.) 

Harry.  Thornton,  Thornton  ! 

T lor nt on  {turns  with  a  start).  You  here  ? 

Harry  {trembling).  Yes,  yes  ;  don’t  be  fierce,  don’t.  Il 
:s  so  dark  and  dismal  up  there  !  and  the  rats  —  oh,  such 
rats  !  — glare  at  me  from  their  holes.  I  couldn’t  stay.  Don’t 
send  me  back:  I’ll  be  very  quiet.  I’m  sober  too.  Not  a 
drop  for  two  days  :  not  a  drop. 

Thornton.  What’s  the  matter  with  you  now  ? 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


33 


Harry.  Oh  !  nothing,  nothing :  only  I  wanted  to  be  so* 
liable  {tries  to  smile),  —  as  sociable  as  you  and  I  were  in 
the  old  times. 

Thornton.  Sociable  !  you  and  I !  Bah  !  you’re  shaking 
like  an  aspen.  What  friendship  can  there  be  between  me 
md  a  miserable  sot  like  you  ? 

Harry.  Yes,  I  know  I’m  not  the  man  I  used  to  be :  I 
know  it.  Oh,  the  thought  of  that  other  life  I  lived  once, 
tc  rtures  me  almost  to  madness  ! 

Thornton.  Well,  why  don’t  you  go  back  to  it  ? 

Harry.  Back  ?  back  to  that  old  home  among  the  hills 
from  which  I  came,  full  of  lusty  manhood  ?  Back  to  the 
old  man  who  looked  upon  me  with  all  a  father’s  pride  ?  the 
dear  mother  whose  darling  I  was  ?  the  fair,  young  girl 
whose  heart  I  broke  ?  Back  there,  with  tottering  steps,  a 
pitiful  wreck,  to  die  upon  the  threshold  of  the  dear  old 
home  ?  No,  no  :  not  that,  not  that ! 

Thornton.  Then  be  quiet.  You  have  brought  ruin 
upon  yourself  :  you  can’t  complain  of  me. 

Harry.  No,  I  don’t  complain.  It  was  a  fair  picture  of 
fame  and  fortune  you  laid  before  me  ;  and  when  I  found  the 
honorable  mercantile  business,  in  which  you  had  amassed 
wealth,  was  work  like  this,  I  should  have  turned  back. 

Thornton.  I  told  you  to  keep  a  clear  head  and  a  steady 
hand  ;  to  sell,  not  poison  yourself  with  my  liquid  wares. 

Harry.  Yet  you  placed  pleasures  before  me  that  turned 
my  head,  and  — 

Thornton.  They  never  turned  mine.  You  were  a  fool, 
and  fell. 

Harry.  Ay,  a  fool !  Yes,  your  fool,  Robert  Thornton. 
I  quaffed  the  ruby  wine,  I  flung  myself  into  every  indul¬ 
gence,  because  you  led  me.  I  must  keep  a  cool  head  and  as 
steady  hand,  with  fire  in  my  veins  !  I  feel  I  am  condemned. 
Of  my  own  free  will,  I  flung  away  a  life.  I  do  not  com¬ 
plain  ;  but,  when  we  stand  before  the  last  tribunal,  Heaven 
be  the  judge  if  your  hands  are  unstained  with  my  life-blood, 
Robert  Thornton. 

Thornton.  Enough  of  this  :  back  to  your  den. 

Harry.  No,  no,  Thornton,  not  there  !  I  will  be  quiet, 
silent ;  but  do  not,  in  mercy,  do  not  drive  me  back  there  ! 

Thornton.  Poor  devil !  Well,  stay  here :  look  after 
the  bar  until  Daley  returns.  {Aside,  going  l.)  He  can’t 
resist :  he’ll  make  a  dive  for  the  brandy,  and  forget.  Two 


34 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


days  without  it :  I  should  not  have  allowed  that.  ( Exit  L., 
I.E.) 

Harry.  Stay  here  !  No,  no,  he  has  given  me  a  chance 
for  freedom.  The  doors  are  open :  a  dash,  and  I  am  free. 

'  Free  for  what  ?  To  die  in  the  gutter.  I  could  drag  myself 
no  farther ;  and  who  would  look  with  compassion  on  such  a 
ragged,  bloated  wretch  as  1  ?  No,  no  :  I  have  sold  myself, 
body  and  soul,  to  this  accursed  life.  ( Staggers  to  bar.)  Let 
me  get  at  the  brandy  ;  that,  at  least,  will  bring  freedom,  — 
freedom  from  this  maddening  thirst,  these  horrible  fears 
that  drive  me  mad.  ( Staggers  behind  bar.)  Ah,  here,  here  ! 
{Seizes  decanter .)  The  balm  for  bitter  memories.  Stop, 
stop  !  That  vision  in  the  night,  —  Jessie,  with  her  warning 
finger :  and  the  old  melody  I  loved  so  well  rang  in  my  ears. 
I  vowed  I’d  drink  no  more,  though  I  should  die  of  madness. 
(  Buries  his  face  in  his  arms  upon  the  bar.  Enter  R.,  down 
steps ,  Capt.  Bragg.) 

Capt.  Found  a  new  place.  {Looking  about)  Superb  — 
gorgeous  —  dazzling!  Here’s  juiciness  !  Just  my  idea  of  a 
palace.  The  man  who  figured  this  place  no  doubt  believes 
his  plan  original.  Absurd  !  I  planned  it  years  ago.  Bragg’s 
plan  stolen  !  Fact,  by  jingo  !  {Raps  on  bar)  *  Come, 
young  man,  business,  business.  (Harry  raises  his  head : 
Bragg  staggers  back)  Harry  Maynard,  or  I’m  no  Bragg ! 
{Comes  to  bar ,  and  offers  his  hand)  Harry,  young  fellow, 
how  are  you  ?  (Harry  falls  back ,  and  glares  at  him)  Don’t 
know  me,  hey?  Why,  I’m  Bragg,  Capt.  Bragg,  your  dis¬ 
tinguished  townsman  ;  Bragg  of  the  Rangers  ;  every  man 
a  sharpshooter,  and  their  commander  —  well,  modesty  for¬ 
bids  my  mentioning  him  in  fitting  panegyrics.  Why,  how 
you  stare  !  You  don’t  look  well. 

Harry.  I  don’t  know  you. 

Capt.  Won’t  do,  my  boy,  won’t  do.  You  may  be  able 
to  b! afi  common  folks,  but  I’m  Bragg ;  Bragg  of  the  judi¬ 
cial  brow,  Bragg  of  the  penetrating  eye  :  it’s  a  keen  one,  and, 
when  I  fixed  that  detective’s  orb  upon  you,  I  said,  There's 
my  man  !  Why,  they’ve  fitted  out  an  exploring  party  for 
the  purpose  of  hunting  you  up,  —  Mrs.  Charity  Goodall, 
Jessie,  Tom  Larcom,  and  that  black  imp  Stub.  They’ve 
scoured  the  city  in  vain.  They  didn’t  ask  my  help,  and  I 
am  the  keen-eyed  volunteer  that  never  misses  his  mark.  I 
have  found  you.  Oh,  here’s  glory,  for  Bragg’s  outwitted 
’em  all !  I  knew  I  should :  Bragg  never  fails,  never ;  and 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


35 


now  I’ve  got  you,  you  can’t  escape  me.  Come,  come,  don’t 
glare  like  a  madman.  What  will  I  have  ?  Brandy,  of 
course  !  (Harry  sets  decanter  and  glass  before  him.)  They 
made  a  mistake  :  when  there’s  any  detective  business  to  be 
done,  call  a  Bragg.  He  can  see  farther  and  run  faster  than 
the  sharpest  of  ’em.  Fact,  by  jingo.  {Pours  liquor  into 
glass.)  Ah,  that’s  my  style!  {Raises glass.)  Here’s  to  the 
glorious  Rangers,  Bragg’s  own  ! 

Harry  {excitedly).  Stop  !  don’t  drink  that.  See,  there’s 
a  snake  twisting  and  turning  about  in  the  glass.  Stop,  or 
you  are  a  dead  man  ! 

Capt.  {sets  down  glass,  and  staggers  back).  Jersey  light¬ 
ning  ! 

Harry  {glaring).  See,  it’s  raising  its  head,  —  it  will 
strike  deep  and  sure  :  and  there’s  another,  and  another. 
Look,  they  are  crawling  about  the  decanter :  now  they  drop 
upon  the  bar :  they  are  upon  you :  tear  them  off,  tear 
them  off  !  They  strike  and  kill,  strike  and  kill ! 

Capt.  He’s  raving  mad.  I  wish  1  was  well  out  of  this. 

Harry.  Thicker  and  thicker,  faster  and  faster,  they 
come  upon  the  bar.  See  them  glare  at  me  !  Back,  back  ! 
{Dashes  his  hands  upon  bar.)  Ah,  they  coil  about  my 
arms.  Away,  away  !  {Attempts  to  tear  them  off.)  They 
crawl  about  me  :  they  are  at  my  throat.  Help,  help*  help  ! 
{Runs  into  c.,  and falls  upon  floor.) 

Capt.  He’s  got  ’em  bad.  {Runs  to  entrance ,  R.)  Fight 
’em,  young  man,  fight  ’em :  it’s  your  only  chance.  J  guess 
I  won’t  drink  :  can’t  stop.  {Runs  up  and  off,  R.) 

Harry  {raises  his  head).  Gone,  gone  at  last  with  him. 
I’ve  driven  them  off  again ;  but  they  will  come  again. 
What’s  that  ?  {Glares  into  corner,  L.)  Rats  again :  fierce 
and  big !  how  they  look  at  me  !  Away  !  Gleaming  teeth 
and  eyes  of  fire  !  Away,  I  say  !  I  cannot  drive  them  back. 
They  swarm  about  me  :  they’re  at  my  legs.  {Tears  them 
off.)  Devils,  I’ll  fight  you  all !  Closer  and  closer  !  {Gets  to 
his  feet)  They’re  making  for  my  throat :  away,  I  say ! 
{Tears  the7n  from  his  breast)  I  cannot,  cannot.  Now 
they’re  at  my  throat !  {Hands  at  his  throat)  Off,  devils  ; 
off,  I  say  !  Help,  help  !  oh,  help  !  {Falls  quivering  upon 
the  stage.  Enter  Thornton,  l.) 

Thornton.  What’s  this,  Maynard?  Maynard,  I  say! 
{Drags  him  to  his  feet) 

Harry  {clinging  to  Thornton).  Don’t  let  them  get  al 


3$ 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


me :  there’s  a  thousand  of  them  thirsting  for  my  life.  Save 
me  from  them  ! 

Thornton.  Oh,  you’ve  been  dreaming  !  you’re  all  right 
now.  Come,  get  to  bed:  you’ll  sleep  it  off.  Up  above 
you’re  safe  enough.  ( Drags  him  up  stage.) 

Harry.  Not  there,  not  there,  Thornton.  Don’t  thrust 
me  into  that  hole  to-night.  They’re  up  there,  lurking  in 
corners,  waiting  to  eat  me.  Don’t,  Thornton,  don’t ! 

Thornton  {struggling  with  him).  Fool,  do  as  I  bid  you  ! 
(. Throws  ope7i  mirrored  door.  Stub  comes  down  steps ,  l., 
and  watches  them.) 

Harry.  Not  to-night,  Thornton,  not  to-night !  (Thorn¬ 
ton  pushes  him  in,  closes  door ,  and  locks  it.  Stub  comes 
down  softly ,  a?id  sits  l.  of  table.) 

Thornton.  He’s  safe  there.  I  shouldn’t  wonder  if 
this  night  rid  me  of  him. 

Stub  {aside).  Shouldn’t  wonder  a  bit.  {Rafs  on  table. ) 
Here,  bar-keeper,  innholder,  porter,  bootblack,  somebody  or 
anybody,  am  a  genblem  gwine  to  wait  all  night  ?  am  he, 
say,  somebody  ? 

T hornton.  Hallo  !  who  are  you  ? 

Stub.  Hallo,  yourself :  a  genblem  .widout  extinction  ob 
color.  Hop  beer  and  peppermint  for  one.  Be  libely,  be 
libely  ! 

Thornton.  We  don’t  serve  niggers  here. 

Stub.  Wh-wh-what  dat?  Wha’s  yer  ignorance?  wha’s 
yer  ignorance  ?  Take  keer,  take  keer  :  five  hundred  dollars 
fine !  Cibil  rights  bill :  dat’s  me.  You  can’t  fool  dis 
yer  citizen  widout  extinction  ob  color :  no,  sir.  {Raps  on 
tablet)  Ginger  ale  and  sassaparilla  for  one.  Be  libely  ! 

Thornton.  Take  yourself  off :  you  cannot  be  served 
here. 

Stub.  Take  keer,  take  keer;  don’t  debate  my  choler: 
don’t  rouse  de  slumbrin’  African  lion ;  ef  yer  does,  down 
goes  de  whole  hippodrome.  Don’t  cibil  rights  bill  say,  don’t 
he,  ebery  citizen,  widout  extinction  ob  color,  am  entitled  to  all 
de  privileges  ob  trabel,  —  de  smokeolotive,  steamboat,  and 
—  and  horse  cars  :  an’  to  be  taken  in  to  all  de  inns,  an’  giben 
all  de  freedom,  —  free  lunch,  free  drinks,  an’  five  hundred 
dollars  out  ob  de  pocket  ob  any  man  dat  says,  Dry  up  ? 
Dat’s  de  law,  mind  yer  eye.  {Raps  on  tablet)  Soda  and 
sassafras.  Be  libely,  be  libely ! 

Thornton  {takes  a  revolver  from  his  pocket).  Will  you 
have  my  pocket  flask  ? 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


37 


Stub.  O  Lor  !  ( Slides  under  table)  Dat  ain’t  de  kind  : 
put  ’im  up,  put  ’im  up  !  Ain’t  dry  :  guess  I  won’t  drink. 

Thornton.  Out  of  this,  or  you’ll  get  a  taste  of  civil 
rights  that  will  teach  you  better  manners. 

Stub.  I’s  gwine  :  don’t  want  no  manners.  {Creeps  out, 
and  goes  up  stage.  Enter  Charity  Good  all,  r.,  down 
steps ,  enveloped  in  a  waterproof  cloak  :  she  comes  down  c.) 

Thornton.  What  want  you  here  ?  Who  are  you? 

Charity  {extending  her  hand).  Charity. 

Thornton  {turning  to  table ,  and  laying  down  pistol ). 
Away  :  you’ll  get  nothing  here  ! 

Charity  {throws  off  cloak).  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that, 
Robert  Thornton. 

Thornton  {turns  quickly).  Charity  Goodall !  (Stub 
comes  down  softly ,  takes  pistol,  goes  up,  crosses  stage,  and 
hides  behind  bar)  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Goodall.  This 
is  indeed  a  surprise  ! 

Charity.  And  yet  you  have  been  expecting  me  ;  dread¬ 
ing  the  hour  when  you  and  I  should  meet  face  to  face. 

Thornton.  This  is  hardly  the  place  for  a  woman  who 
would  guard  her  good  name  from  scandal. 

Charity.  You  forget  I  am  a  woman  above  suspicion : 
that  I  have  won  a  good  name,  by  daring  to  enter  such  dens 
as  yours,  on  errands  of  mercy. 

Thornton.  Ah  !  indeed  !  what  errand  of  mercy  brings 
the  saintly  Charity  Goodall  into  my  humble  saloon  ? 

Charity.  Ah,  you  confess  ownership  !  The  spider  of 
the  gilded  web  !  You,  who,  under  the  guise  of  'a  gentle¬ 
man,  lured  my  husband  from  an  honorable  life :  you,  who, 
with  flattering  promises  of  honorable  wealth,  tricked  a  brave 
lad  to  his  ruin.  Your  humble  saloon  !  You  sneer,  and  yet 
you  tremble.  Confess  all :  confess  you  are  a  villain  and  a 
cheat ! 

Thornton.  I  will  not  listen  to  you.  Be  warned  in  time : 
at  any  moment,  a  rude  throng  may  burst  upon  you.  You  are 
liable  to  insult  from  which  I  could  not  protect  you. 

Charity.  Fear  not  for  me  :  my  mission  is  my  protec¬ 
tion.  Alone,  I  have  walked  into  the  worst  dens,  without 
fear,  without  insult.  With  the  most  abandoned,  no  hand  is 
raised  against  one  who  comes  to  rescue  and  deliver.  Rob¬ 
ert  Thornton,  listen  to  me :  day  and  night  I  have  sought, 
with  ready  helpers,  Harry  Maynard.  To-night  I  have 
tracked  him  here. 


3» 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Thornton.  Here  ? 

Charity.  Ay,  here !  You  threw  me  from  the  scent 
with  your  story  of  his  utter  degradation.  I  never  dreamed 
the  silly  fly  was  ensnared  in  the  gilded  web.  Give  him  back 
to  the  friends  who  mourn  for  him,  and,  spite  my  wrongs, 
all  shall  be  forgotten. 

Thornton.  You  ask  too  much  :  you  see  he  is  not  here. 
You  have  been  misinformed :  for  once  the  shrewd  angel 
of  mercy  has  been  deceived. 

Charity.  Indeed  !  Perhaps  another  may  be  more  suc¬ 
cessful —  Jessie  !  ( Enter  from  r.,  hurriedly ,  Jessie.) 

Jessie.  Have  you  found  him  ?  Speak  !  in  mercy,  speak  ! 

Charity  (j putting  her  arm  about  Jessie).  Be  calm,  my 
child :  there  is  the  man  who  holds  him  in  his  power,  — 
Robert  Thornton. 

Jessie.  Mr.  Thornton?  No,  no,  it  cannot  be  !  ( Falls  on 
her  knees  to  him.)  If  you  know  where  he  is,  if  you  can 
give' him  back  to  his  father,  to  me,  I  will  bless  you. 

Thornton.  You  are  mistaken,  Jessie  ;  I  cannot  give  him 
back.  You  know  how  much  I  loved  him.  Think  you,  if  it 
were  in  my  power,  I  would  refuse  the  request  of  the  only 
woman  I  truly  loved  ? 

Jessie.  Oh,  this  is  mockery  !  (Rises,  and  goes  to  Char¬ 
ity,  who  folds  her  in  her  arms.) 

Charity.  Poor  child,  your  prayers  are  vain  :  that  man 

is  pitiless  ! 

Thornton.  I  told  you  you  had  been  deceived.  Was  1 
not  right?  You  tracked  him  here,  and  yet  you  cannot  find 
him.  See  how  your  well-laid  plan  has  failed  ! 

Charity.  No;  for  I  have  one  resource  left,  one  taught 
me  by  the  noble  women  of  the  West.  You  fear  for  my  good 
name  :  do  you  fear  for  those  who  come  to  my  aid  with  the 
song  he  loved  ?  Pray  heaven  it  reach  the  prisoner’s  ear ! 
(Raises  her  hand.  Chorus  outside :  — 

“In  the  sweet  by  and  by, 

We  will  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore,”  &c. 

E?iter ,  singing,  from  R.  and  L.  down  steps,  filling  the  steps , 
a  chorus  of  women,  well  dressed,  in  light  costumes  j  they 
stop  upon  the  steps) 

Harry  (above  when  the  song  ceases.)  Help,  help  !  save, 
oh,  save  me ! 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


39 


Jessie.  His  voice,  Harry’s  voice !  ( Kneels  to  Thorn¬ 
ton.)  Man,  now,  if  you  have  a  spark  of  pity,  lead  me  to 
him  ! 

Charity.  Robert  Thornton,  be  merciful ! 

Thornton.  You  plead  in  vain:  he  is  beyond  your 
reach. 

Stub  ( rising ,  behind  bar).  Dat’s  a  lie,  dat’s  a  lie  !  (Runs 
uf  to  door ,  c.,  and  throws  it  open)  Quick,  Miss  Jessie  : 
he’s  up  dar.  Go  fur  him,  go  fur  him  !  ( Steps  L.) 

Jessie.  O  Harry,  Harry  !  (Rims  up  steps ,  and  exits 
through  door.) 

Thornton.  Curse  that  fool :  you  must  not  enter  there  ! 
(Goes  towards  door.  Charity  runs  up,  closes  door,  and 
stands  with  back  to  it) 

Charity.  Back  !  you  shall  not  enter  here. 

Thornton.  Woman,  stand  back  :  who  shall  prevent  me? 
(Stub  steps  before  Charity,  and  presents  pistol  to  Thorn¬ 
ton.) 

Stub.  Cibil  rights  bill :  dat’s  me.  (Tom  runs  in  from 
r.  steps,  and  seizes  Thornton’s  arms,  binding  them  back) 

Tom.  %  Ha,  ha  !  shrewdness,  old  fellow  ! 

(Lime  light  thrown  on  from  L.,  above  archway ,  showing 
Maynard  extended  on  a  low  couch,  resting  on  his  right 
arm :  dark  pants,  white  shirt.  Jessie  has  her  arm  about 
him,  supporting  him). 

Jessie.  Harry,  my  own  Harry,  found  at  last ! 

Harry.  Jessie,  Jessie,  thank  Heaven  for  this  !  (Chcrm : 

“  In  the  sweet  by  and  by,”  &c. 


Repeated.  Slaw  curtain.) 


ACT  IV.  —  Thanksgiving  at  the  Old  Home. 


Scene. — Interior  of  John  Maynard’s  house.  In  fiat, 
R.  c.,  bow-window ,  backed  by  road  and  trees ,  white  with 
snow ;  snow  falling ;  door  l.  Open  fire-place ,  r.,  with 
bright  fire ;  beside  it,  a  high-backed  seat  for  two ;  bureau 
between  door  and  window ,  in  fiat.  Mantle  over  the  fire¬ 
place ,  with  dried  grasses  in  vases ,  clock ,  and  other  orna¬ 
ments.  Ar?n-chair  l.  ;  chair  back  of  that.  Door  R.  U.  E. ; 
door  l.,  2 d  entrance.  Mrs.  Maynard  discovered  at  win¬ 
dow,  looking  out . 

Mrs.  Maynard.  The  snow  comes  faster  and  faster. 
It’s  time  Stub  was  back  from  the  depot  with  Charity.  Ah, 
’twill  be  a  dull  Thanksgiving  for  us  this  year :  not  like  the 
old  times  when  we  had  Charley,  Harry,  and  Jessie,  to  make 
us  all  merry.  Dear  me  !  time  does  break  up  households. 
{Enter  John  from  door 'Ll) 

John.  I’ve  put  him  on  Harry’s  bed,  mother.  I  expect 
you’ll  scold  when  you  see  your  white  counterpane  muddied 
by  his  boots,  for  I  couldn’t  get  him  beneath  it.  Poor  devil ! 
I  fear  ’twill  be  his  deathbed.  I’d  about  made  up  my  mind 
that  I’d  never  give  another  tramp  shelter ;  but  he  looked  so 
bad,  I  hadn’t  the  heart  to  turn  him  away  (sits  on  bench) 
when  I  thought,  mother,  that  our  poor  boy  might  have 
come  in  the  same  way. 

Mrs.  Maynard  (comes  down).  That’s  so  like  you,  John  ! 
I  s  he  very  bad  ? 

John.  Yes :  broken  down  with  hunger  and  drink.  He 
begged  hard  for  a  little  brandy.  It  was  well  I  had  none,  ioi 
’twould  have  been  cruel  to  refuse  him,  and  I  would  die  ere  I 
touched  the  curse,  the  cause  of  so  much  misery  to  us. 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


41 


Mrs.  Maynard.  Ah,  John,  all  that’s  over. 

John.  Yes,  mother,  we  must  hope  for  the  best.  He 
was  saved,  thanks  to  Charity  :  but  still  I  fear  for  him. 
’Twill  be  a  day  to  remember,  when  we  have  him  back. 

Mrs.  Maynard.  A  long,  long  year  since  Charity  found 
him,  and  no  word  or  sign  from  our  loved  one. 

John.  Ah,  mother,  I  like  that:  I  was  uncharitable,  —  I, 
who  have  been  so  bitter  against  others  who  turned  their 
faces  from  the  fallen.  But  I’m  proud  of  him.  “Tell 
father,”  he  said  to  Charity,  “  tell  him  I  will  never  cross  his 
threshold  till  I  can  return  as  I  went,  —  a  man.”  That’s  so 
like  a  Maynard  !  that’s  the  true  grit :  I  like  that. 

Mrs.  Maynard.  And  Charity  will  give  us  no  news  of 
him. 

John.  No:  she  shakes  her  head.  “Give  him  time,  give  him 
time  :  ”  but  she  smiles  when  she  says  it ;  and,  when  Charity 
smiles,  you  can  depend  upon  it  all’s  going  well.  We  must 
trust  her,  mother.  So  we  have  two  more  faces  in  the  fire, 
Harry’s  and  Jessie’s.  (. Sleigh-bells  heard  without.)  Ah  ! 
there  she  is,  there  she  is  !  ( Goes  to  window .)  No,  it’s  Tom 

and  Kitty  with  the  baby.  Why,  mother,  they’ve  brought 
the  baby  :  here’s  a  surprise  for  you. 

Tom  {outside).  Whoa,  I  tell  you  !  Give  me  the  baby, 
Kitty :  that’s  all  right.  Now  come  along,  come  along. 
{Enters  door  in  flat,  with  a  baby  well  bundled  in  his 
arms.) 

John.  Tom,  glad  to  see  you :  this  is  hearty.  Come  to 
the  fire  ;  and,  Kitty,  give  us  a  smack.  {Kisses  Kitty.) 

Tom.  Hallo  !  easy  there  ;  but  I  suppose  it’s  all  right. 

John.  Right?  of  course  ’tis.  Now  give  me  the  baby. 

Tom.  To  serve  in  the  same  style?  No,  I  thank  you; 
it’s  a  tenderer  bit  than  Kitty. 

Kitty.  Tom,  don’t  be  silly  ! 

Mrs.  Maynard.  I’ll  take  him,  Tom,  the  little  darling 
{Takes  baby.) 

Tom  {reluctantly  giving  it  tip).  Certainly,  only  handle 
him  gently  :  I’m  terribly  anxious. 

Mrs.  Maynard  {sits  on  settle.  John  helps  Kitty  off 
with  her  things).  Oh,  you  little  beauty ! 

Tom  {leans  on  mantle ,  back ,  a?id  watches  her).  The  pic¬ 
ture  of  his  daddy  :  that’s  what  they  all  say.  Is  his  nose  all 
right  ?  Ain’t  much  of  it,  but,  if  the  frost  got  at  it,  good-by 
nose.  Take  care  !  Oh,  Lord,  I  thought  you  had  dropped 


4* 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


him.  Hey,  Johnny,  look  up  :  he’s  a  smart  one  for  a  three* 
months’  older.  Hadn’t  I  better  take  him  ? 

Kitty.  Tom,  do  you  suppose  Mrs.  Maynard  don’t  know 
how  to  handle  a  baby  ? 

Tom.  Well,  I  don’t  know,  Kitty ;  they  break  awful  easy. 
You  just  keep  your  eye  on  him  until  I  put  up  the  horse. 
{Going;  returns .)  Does  he  look  all  right,  Mrs.  Maynard  ? 

Mrs.  Maynard.  Right !  don’t  you  see  he’s  wide  awake  ? 

Tom.  Yes  :  but  hadn’t  he  ought  to  be  asleep  ? 

Kitty.  Tom,  do  go  and  put  up  your  horse.  I  never  saw 
such  a  goose  ;  when  he’s  awake,  you  think  he  should  be 
asleep,  and  when  he’s  asleep  you  want  to  wake  him. 

Tom.  Parental  anxiety.  You  see,  Mrs.  Maynard,  this  is 
something  new  to  me. 

Kitty.  Well,  isn’t  it  new  to  all  of  us  ?  Do  go  along  ! 

Tom.  I’m  off.  {Exit  door  in  Jlat.) 

Kitty.  Such  a  plague  ! 

John.  Ah,  Kitty,  not  satisfied !  You  regret  not  having 
taken  the  other,  Nat  Harlow. 

Kitty.  No,  indeed.  Tom’s  the  best  husband  in  the 
world.  I’ve  not  heard  a  cross  word  from  him  the  whole  year 
since  we’ve  been  married ;  but  he  does  make  such  a  fuss 
about  baby  !  Sha’n’t  I  take  him,  Mrs.  Maynard  ? 

John.  Oh,  ho  !  somebody  else  makes  a  fuss  too.  {Sleigh- 
bells  heard.)  Ah,  here’s  Charity  at  last. 

Charity  {outside).  Drive  to  the  barn,  Stub ;  I’ll  jump 
out.  {Enters  door  in  Jlat.)  Here  I  am,  you  dear  old  John. 
{Shakes  hands ,  and  kisses  John.) 

John.  Welcome,  Charity  ;  a  thousand  times  welcome  ! 

Charity.  I  knew  you’d  be  glad  to  see  me.  {Runs  to 
Mrs.  Maynard,  and  kisses  herl)  You  dear,  dear  old 
Hannah  ! 

Mrs.  Maynard.  Ah,  Charity,  you  always  bring  sun¬ 
light  with  you. 

Charity.  A  baby  !  bless  me  !  Oh  !  it’s  yours,  Kitty. 
That  for  you  {kisses  her),  and  this  for  the  baby.  {Kisses 
baby) 

Kitty.  Young  as  ever,  Mrs.  Goodall.  Come,  Mrs.  May¬ 
nard,  let  me  carry  the  baby  off  to  bed.  Don’t  move :  I 
know  the  way.  {Takes  baby ,  and  exits  R.  u.  E.) 

John.  Now,  Charity,  our  boy  — 

Mrs.  Maynard.  Yes,  Harry  !  What  news  ? 

Charity.  Dear  me  !  do  let  me  get  my  things  off.  ( Re < 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


43 


moves  cloak  and  hat.  Mrs.  Maynard  takes  them ,  and  car • 
ties  them  off  r.  u.  e.  Charity  sits,  and  looks  into  fire. ) 
What  a  glorious  blaze  !  (John  leans  o?i  back  of  bench)  Ah, 
John,  I’ve  often  envied  you  your  quiet  evenings  here,  with 
this  for  company ;  often  seen  you  and  Hannah  sitting  here 
together,  taking  so  much  comfort.  {Enter  Mrs.  Maynard, 
r.  u.  e.,  and  leans  on  bench,  between  Charity  and  the  fire.) 

Mrs.  Maynard.  O  Charity  !  tell  us  of  our  boy. 

John.  Yes,  yes,  Charity,  be  merciful  :  what  of  him  ? 

Charity  {rises  and  comes  l.).  Oh,  do  be  patient !  I’ve 
a  strange  fancy  to  see  how  you  look  there  in  the  old  seat. 
Come,  take  your  places,  and  tell  me  what  you  see  there. 
(John  sits  with  Mrs.  Maynard  on  bench ,  she  next  the firej 
he  takes  her  hand)  That’s  nice.  {Goes  to  back  of  bench) 
Now,  tell  me,  what  see  you  there  ?  {Enter  Stub,  door  in 
flat ,  excitedly) 

Stub.  I’ve  put  ’em  up,  Miss  Charity,  an’  — an’  — 

Charity.  Silence,  Stub  !  {He  comes  down  i,) 

Stub  {aside).  Dat’s  de  quarest  woman  eber  I  see :  ben 
in  de  house  five  minutes,  an’  not  tole  de  news. 

Charity.  Well,  John,  I’m  waiting. 

John.  There,  Charity,  is  my  picture-gallery  of  old  mem¬ 
ories,  that  both  sadden  and  cheer  waiting  and  aching  hearts.  * 
What  do  I  see  ?  {Looking  into  fire)  The  face  of  my  brave 
soldier  boy :  the  face  that  has  glowed  upon  us  in  its  noble 
manhood  for  many,  many  years. 

Charity.  The  face  of  a  hero,  John  :  there  are  no  bitter 
memories  there.  He  died  bravely  :  passed  into  the  better 
life  with  the  grand  army  of  martyrs,  crowned  with  glory. 

Stub.  Yas  indeed,  dead  an’  gone,  Massa  Cap’n :  God 
bless  him  !  Miss  Charity,  am  you  gwine  to  tell  — 

Charity.  Be  silent !  (Stub  goes  l.,  shaking  his  head) 

Stub.  I  shall  bust  it  out :  I  can’t  help  it. 

Charity.  Well,  brother  John. 

John.  Another,  a  younger  face.  Now  I  see  it  with  the 
glow  of  health  upon  the  cheeks,  the  eye  bright  and  laugh¬ 
ing-,  as  I  have  seen  it  come  and  go  before  me  in  the  old  days. 
And  now — ’tis  pale  and  haggard :  the  eyes  are  bloodshot. 
O  Charity,  the  face  that  has  haunted  my  sleep  !  I  have 
tried  to  snui  it  out ;  but  it  comes  before  me  with  a  look  full 
of  reproach.  Oh  had  I  but  been  merciful,  all  this  might  nof 
have  been  ! 

Charity.  And  yet  that,  too,  is  the  face  of  a  hero. 

Stub.  Oh  1  why  don’t  she  tell  ’em  ? 


44 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


Charity.  Go  on,  John  :  look  once  more. 

John-  Once  more :  the  face  of  a  fair,  bright  girl,  who 
won  her  way  to  my  heart.  I  never  knew  how  much  I  loved, 
until  I  lost  her.  She  left  me,  nobly  left  me  :  I  had  no  right 
to  stay  her.  Will  she  come  back,  Charity  ?  will  she  ? 

Stub.  Why,  don’t  you  know  — 

Charity.  Silence,  Stub  !  Now,  brother  John,  let  me 
tell  you  what  I  see  there.  I  see  the  face  of  that  same  brave, 
true  girl,  in  all  its  beauty :  the  girl  who  forsook  home  and 
friends,  with  the  brave  wish  in  her  heart  to  save  her  lover 
from  destruction.  I  see  her  gladly  embracing  a  life  of  hard) 
grinding  poverty,  cheering  the  fainting  spirit  of  a  broken 
man,  guarding  and  guiding  him  through  the  dark  valley  of 
remorse,  until  he  stands  alone,  strong,  resolute,  determined. 

John.  Jessie,  our  Jessie  :  well,  well,  go  on. 

Charity.  I  see  her  with  the  rich  glow  of  health  again 
mantling  her  cheeks  :  I  hear  the  ringing  laugh  of  the  happy 
girl  again  :  I  see  her  returning  to  her  father’s  house  (enter 
Jessie,  door  in  flat ),  a  proud,  true,  happy  wife  ! 

Jessie  (running  down  to  John).  Here,  here  again  :  dear, 
dear  father ! 

John  (rising.,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms).  Jessie,  my 
darling,  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  welcome  ! 

Jessie.  Dear,  dear  mother,  your  child  has  returned  to 
you. 

Mrs.  Maynard  (takes  her  in  her  arms).  O  Jessie,  Jessie, 
welcome  !  do  you  come  alone  ? 

Charity.  Be  patient!  sit  you  down  and  listen.  (They 
sit  again ,  Jessie  kneeling  between  Mrs.  Maynard  and  the 
fire. ) 

Stub.  Wh-wh-what  all  dis  mean  ?  Ain’t  you  gwine  — 

Charity.  Silence,  Stub  !  I  see  another  face,  —  the  face 
of  the  young  man  who  went  forth  to  fight  the  battle  of 
temptation.  I  see  him  struggling :  I  see  friends  around 
him  :  I  see  one  with  a  true,  loving  heart,  clinging  to  him 
through  good  and  evil  report :  see  him  fighting  valiantly  in 
the  clistant  West :  see  the  freshness  of  renewed  life  in 
his  ruddy  cheek,  until,  his  foe  beneath  his  feet,  he  comes 
back  to  his  old  home.  (Enter  Harry,  door  in  fiat.) 

John  (rushing  down  r.).  I  see  it  all,  Charity :  my  boy 
has  come  home.  Where,  oh,  where  is  he  ? 

Harry.  Here,  father,  here. 

John  (turns).  O  Harry,  Harry!  my  dear,  dear  boy 
{Rushing  into  his  arms.) 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


45 


Stub.  Hi,  golly!  dat’s  de  ticket,  dat’s  de  ticket: 

Harry.  Mother,  have  you  no  word  for  the  truant  ? 

Mrs.  Maynard  ( etnbracing  him).  My  heart  is  too  full, 
Harry!  (Harry,  c. ;  Mrs.  Maynard,  r.  c. ;  Jessie,  r.  ; 
Mr.  Maynard,  l.  c.  ;  Charity,  l.  ;  Stub,  extreme  l.) 

Harry.  Mother,  father,  of  the  bitter  past  — 

John.  We’ll  not  hear  a  word,  Harry.  We  have  you  safe 
again :  let  the  sorrows  of  the  past  be  forgotten  in  the 
joy  of  the  present.  Mother,  look  at  him  !  what  a  frame, 
what  a  face  !  Hang  me,  if  I  don’t  believe  all  this  has  been 
a  joke ! 

Harry.  Nay,  father,  in  remembering  the  trials  we  have 
passed,  we  gain  new  hope  for  the  future.  I  am  a  free  man, 
with  a.  home  of  my  own  ;  rich  Western  lands  own  me  as 
master ;  but  I  owe  all  to  the  dear  girl  who  loved  me,  —  the 
brave,  noble  woman  who  befriended  me.  Come  here,  little 
wife  :  let  my  parents  see  that  the  child  they  adopted  is  now 
theirs  by  right.  (Jessie  goes  to  him.) 

Jessie.  Yes,  father,  we  ran  away  and  were  married  :  will 
you  forgive  us  ? 

John.  Forgive  you,  puss?  it  was  Harry’s  salvation! 
{Enter  Tom,  door  hi  fiat.) 

Tom.  There,  the  horse  is  all  right :  now  for  the  baby. 
Bless  my  soul,  where’s  the  baby  ?  {Enter  Kitty,  r.  u.  e.) 

Kitty.  Asleep,  Tom  ;  don’t  make  such  a  noise  ! 

Tom.  Asleep!  he’ll  die  of  starvation.  Here!  {Takes 
nursing-bottle  from  his  pocket.)  I  forgot  to  leave  his  lun¬ 
cheon. 

Kitty  {snatching  bottle).  Tom,  I’m  ashamed  of  you, 
before  all  these  folks  !  {They  go  up.  Enter  Capt.  Bragg, 
door  in  flat.) 

Capt.  Ah,  Maynard,  how  are  you  ?  I  just  dropped  in 
as  I  was  going  by.  Why,  bless  my  soul !  Harry  Maynard, 
as  fresh  as  a  buttercup  !  Why,  how  are  you  ?  and  Jessie 
too!  Well,  this  is  glorious!  {Shakes  hands.)  John,  old 
friend,  you’re  a  lucky  dog !  I  thought  the  boy  was  about 
gone,  the  last  time  I  saw  him  ;  but  he’s  come  round  all  right. 
Ah  !  I  always  told  you  to  keep  up  a  stout  heart !  Look  at 
me  .  I’m  nearly  seventy  :  my  boy  has  been  gone  twenty 
years  ;  but  I  know  he’ll  come  back,  —  come  back  a  hero,  or 
a  millionnaire  :  he  couldn’t  help  it-!  he’s  a  Bragg.  He’ll 
come  back ! 

Thornton  ( outside ,  l.).  Away  !  away,  you  cannot  reach 


+6 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


me  :  I  defy  you,  I  defy  you  !  ( Rushes  in  l.,  and  falls  pris- 

irate  at  Bragg’s  feet.) 

Capt.  ( shrinking  back).  Hallo,  what’s  this  ? 

Harry  {runs  to  Thornton,  and  raises  his  head).  Mer¬ 
ciful  Heavens,  ’tis  Thornton  ! 

All.  Thornton ! 

Thornton  {feebly').  Who  said  Thornton  ?  What,  May 
nard  !  Maynard,  you  here  ? 

Harry.  O  Thornton  !  has  it  come  to  this  ? 

Thornton.  Yes,  Maynard,  I’m  down:  down  deeper 
than  I  had  you.  There’s  no  hope  !  Only  a  year,  only  a 
year  !  I  was  cheated.  I,  who  thought  myself  so  shrewd 
and  keen,  in  one  night  lost  all,  and  took  to  drink.  Oh,  it’s 
glorious  to  drown  all  trouble  in  the  flowing  bowl !  Ha,  ha! 
but  it  gets  you  at  last :  it  has  me.  I  have  begged,  cheated, 
stolen,  for  a  single  draught.  Give  me  a  drink :  a  drop 
of  brandy,  only  a  drop  to  cool  my  burning  throat  ! 

Harry.  You  ask  this  of  me,  whom  you  so  bitterly 
wronged  ? 

Thornton.  Yes,  I  did  wrong  you ;  but  I  loved  that 
girl  as  I  loved  but  one  other  !  Maynard,  Maynard,  hear 
me  !  this  one  woman  I  wronged  :  she  haunts  me  :  she  was 
my  wife.  I  forsook  her,  cast  her  off.  She  came  from  your 
native  town.  Her  name  —  her  name  was  —  Alice  Clarke. 

John.  Alice  Clarke  —  Jessie’s  mother! 

Thornton.  Jessie’s  mother!  No,  no;  don’t  tell  me 
that :  don’t  make  me  a  greater  villain  than  I  know  myself  to 
be. 

John.  She  died  beneath  my  roof,  giving  her  child  to  my 
keeping. 

Jessie.  He  is  my  father:  stand  back!  Harry,  my  place 
is  here  !  {Kneels,  and  supports  him.) 

Thornton  {looks  in  her  face).  And  I  pursued  you  with  a 
sinful  love  :  brought  him  down  to  the  very  gates  of  death. 

Jessie.  All  is  forgotten,  all  forgiven,  father. 

Thornton.  Take  her  away,  take  her  away  :  I  can  t  bear 
her  touch !  {Crawls  down  stage.)  Her  eyes  glare  at  me  ! 
There’s  the  look  of  her  dead  mother  in  them.  Oh,  spare 
me,  spare  me  ! 

Harry.  O  Thornton,  Thornton,  this  is  terrible! 

Thornton.  Thornton  !  you’re  wrong.  Call  me  by  my 
rightful  name  :  you  must  have  heard  it,  —  William  Bragg 

John.  William  Bragg  ? 


PAST  REDEMPTION. 


47 


Capt.  No,  no  ;  it  cannot  be  !  You,  you  my  Bill  ?  Curse 
/ou  :  you  stole  that  name  !  That  was  my  boy’s,  —  a  hand¬ 
some,  noble  fellow  ! 

Thornton.  I  am  your  son  ! 

Capt.  It’s  a  lie  :  you’re  a  miserable  wretch  !  Think  you 
a  Bragg  would  come  home  in  such  a  plight?  I’ll  not  believe 
it.  (Looks  at  him ,  then  sinks  on  his  knees,  covers  his  face. ) 
It’s  false  !  I  can  not,  will  not  believe  it. 

Thornton.  You  must,  you  do,  old  man.  You  might 
have  made  me  a  better  man  ;  but  you  nursed  my  vanity,  and 
—  well,  well,  it’s  all  over  now.  I’ve  dug  my  grave:  let  me 
rest  in  peace. 

Capt.  (rising  to  his  feet).  No,  no  peace  for  you  :  you 
have  disgraced  my  name.  Die,  die  like  a  dog !  Why  did* 
you  come  back  here  to  ruin  me,  to  drag  me  down  from  my 
position,  to  make  me  a  by-word  and  a  scorn  among  my 
neighbors?  Why  didn’t  you  die  in  the  gutte:s  of  your  in¬ 
famous  city  ?  But  here,  here  !  Die,  but  take  my  — 

Charity  (puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder).  Pause  ere  you 
speak.  He  is  dying ;  he  has  sinned  :  leave  his  punishment 
to  a  higher  Power.  Here,  where  our  hearts  are  warm  with 
gratitude  for  a  blessed  deliverance,  curse  not,  but  forgive  as 
we  all  hope  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Tableau.  —  With  her  left  hand  on  his  shoulder,  Bragg 
slowly  sinks  to  his  knees ;  her  other  hand  is  pointed  up. 
Thornton  feebly  raises  his  head,  and  follows  her  hand. 
Harry  sits  in  chair ,  l.,  with  his  arm  about  Jessie,  who 
kneels  at  his  side,  looking  at  Thornton  ;  Stub  extreme  l. 
John  Maynard  with  his  wife  stand  r.,  2 d  entrance; 
ICitty  o?i  bench ;  Tom  leaning  on  back  of  bench,  looking  ai 
Thornton.  Slow  curtain;  music:  — 


“  In  the  sweet  by  and  by,”  &c. 


THE  MAGISTRATE. 


A  Farce  in  Three  Act*.  By  Arthur  W. 
Pinero.  Twelve  male,  four  female  char- 
_  acters.  Costumes,  modern ;  scenery,  all 

interior.  The  merits  of  this  excellent  and  amusing  piece,  one  of  the  most  popu¬ 
lar  of  its  author’s  plays,  are  well  attested  by  long  and  repeated  runs  in  the 
principal  American  theatres.  It  is  of  the  highest  class  of  dramatic  writing,  and 
is  uproariously  funny,  and  at  the  same  time  unexceptionable  in  tone.  Its  entire 
suitability  for  amateur  performance  has  been  shown  by  hundreds  of  such  pro¬ 
ductions  from  manuscript  during  the  past  three  years.  Plays  two  hours  and 
a  half.  (1892.) 


THE  NOTORIOUS 
MRS.  EBBSMITH. 


A  Drama  in  Four  Acts.  By  Arthur  W. 
Pinero.  Eight  male  and  five  female  charac¬ 
ters  ;  scenery,  all  interiors.  This  is  a 44  prob¬ 
lem  ”  play  continuing  the  series  to  which  “  The 
Profligate  ”  and  “The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray" 
id  intensely  interesting  is  not  suited  ra 


belong,  and  while  strongly  dramatic,  an 
amateur  performance.  It  is  recommended  for  Heading  Clubs.  (1895.) 


dr 


THE  PROFLIGATE.  | 


A  Play  in  Four  Acts.  By  Arthur  W.  Pine- 
ro.  Seven  male  and  five  female  characters. 
Scenery,  three  interiors,  rather  elaborate ; 
costumes,  modern.  This  is  a  piece  of  serious  interest,  powerfully  dramatic  in 
movement,  and  tragic  in  its  event.  An  admirable  play,  hut  not  suited  for  ama¬ 
teur  performance.  (1892.) 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS.  | 


A  Farce  in  Three  Acts.  By  Arthub 
W.  Pinero.  Nine  male,  seven  fe¬ 
male  characters.  Costumes,  mod¬ 
ern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors,  easily  arranged.  This  ingenious  and  laughable 
farce  was  played  by  Miss  Rosina  Yokes  during  her  last  season  in  America  with 
great  success.  Its  plot  is  amusing,  its  action  rapid  and  full  of  incident,  itu  dia¬ 
logue  brilliant,  and  its  scheme  of  character  especially  rich  in  quaint  and  humor¬ 
ous  types.  The  Hon.  Vere  Queckett  and  Peggy  are  especially  strong.  The  piece 
is  in  all  respects  suitable  for  amateurs.  (1894.) 


THE  SECOND 
MRS.  TANQUERAY. 


A  Play  in  Four  Acts.  By  Arthur  W. 
Pinero.  Eight  male  and  five  female  char¬ 
acters.  Costumes,  modern ;  scenery,  three 
interiors.  This  well-known  and  powerful 
play  is  not  well  suited  for  amateur  per¬ 
formance.  It  is  offered  to  Mr.  Pinero’s  admirers  among  the  reading  public  in 
answer  to  the  demand  which  its  wide  discussion  as  an  acted  play  has  created. 
(1894.)  Also  in  Cloth,  $1.00. 


SWEET  LAVENDER.  | 


A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  Bv  Arthub 
W.  Pinero.  Seven  male  and  four  female 
characters.  Scene,  a  single  interior,  the 
same  for  all  three  acts  ;  costumes,  modern  and  fashionable.  This  well  knowii 
and  popular  piece  is  admirably  suited  to  amateur  players,  by  whom  it  has  been 
often  given  during  the  last  few  years.  Its  story  is  strongly  sympathetic,  and  its 
comedy  interest  abundant  and  strong.  (1893.) 


THE  TIMES.  | 


A  Comedy  in  Four  Acts.  By  Arthur  W.  Pinero.  S!r 
male  and  seven  female  characters.  Scene,  a  single  ele¬ 
gant  interior ;  costumes,  modern  and  fashionable.  An 
entertaining  piece,  of  strong  dramatic  interest  and  admirable  satirical  humor. 
(1892.) 


THE  WEAKER  SEX. 


A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts.  By  Arthur 
W.  Pinero.  Eight  male  and  eight  female 
characters.  Costumes,  modern ;  scenery, 
two  interiors,  not  difficult.  This  very  amusing  comedy  was  a  popular  feature  or 
the  repertoire  of  M. .  and  Mrs.  Kenaal  in  this  country.  It  presents  a  plot  of 
strong  dramatic  interest,  and  its  incidental  satire  of  “Woman's  Rights"  em- 

Jlovs  some  admirably  humorous  characters,  and  inspires  many  very  clever  lines. 

ts  leading  characters  are  unusually  even  in  strength  and  prominence,  which 
makes  it  a  very  satisfactory  piece  for  amateurs.  (1894.) 


W 


JO®. 


w 


m 


W.  iDtncro’s  latest 

$rice,  50  Cents?  Cacf) 

IRIS 

Drama  in  Five  Acts 

C^Seven  males,  seven  females.  Costumes, 
modern ;  scenery,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full 
evening.  * 

LETTY 

Drama  in  Four  Acts  and  an  Epilogue 

CTen  males,  five  females.  Costumes,  mod¬ 
ern;  scenery  complicated.Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  GAY  LORD  QUEX 

Comedy  in  Four  Acts 

C^Four  males,  ten  females.  Costumes,  mod¬ 
ern  ;  scenery,  two  interiors  and  an  exterior. 
Plays  a  full  evening. 

HIS  HOUSE  IN  ORDER 

Comedy  in  Four  Acts 

C,Nine  males,  four  females.  Costumes,  mod¬ 
ern;  scenery,  three  interiors.  Plays  a  full  even¬ 
ing. 

A  WIFE  WITHOUT  A  SMILE 

Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

C,Fivemales,fourfemales. Costumes  modern; 
scene,  a  single  interior.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

Sent  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price  by 

Walter  l^.  'Baftcr  &  Company 

No. 5  Hamilton  Place- Boston-Massachusetts 


8.  J,  PA.RIU4ILL  *  CO.,  PRINTERS.  POSTON.  U.S.A. 


NO  PLAYS  EXCHANGED. 


Copyright,  1893,  by  Emily  F.  Baker  (in  renewal). 


A  NEW  ILLUSTRATED  CATALOGUE 

Of  the  plays  of  Geo.  M.  Baker  sent  free  on  application. 

THESE  PLAYS  ARE  ALWAYS  IN  PRINT. 


BAKER’S  DARKEY  PLAY 

Edited  and  arranged  for  publication  from  the  well-known  repertoire  of 
“  SCHOOLCRAFT  AND  COES  ”  with  all  their  original 
“gags’/  and  “  stage  business.” 

BY  GEO.  H.  COES. 

Price . 15  cents  each. 


“Luke  Schoolcraft”  and  “George  Coes”  are  too  well  known  to  admirers  o 
Negro  Minstrelsy  to  require  comment,  and  the  following  selections  from  thei 
admirable  repertory  of  pieces  have  no  need  of  other  recommendation.  No  on< 
who  has  seen  these  artists  in  any  of  the  following  list  of  sketches  needs  assur 
dnce  of  their  humor  and  good  acting  quality.  Twelve  are  now  ready,  and  others 
will  follow  as  the  demand  arises. 

Mrs.  Didymus’  Party.  In  One  Scene.  Two  male  characters. 
Scene,  a  plain  room.  An  immensely  humorous  trifle.  Plays 
twenty  minutes. 

Music  VS.  Elocution.  In  One  Scene.  Two  male  characters. 

Scene,  a  plain  room.  Always  very  popular.  Plays  fifteen  minutes. 
Mistaken  Identity.  In  One  Scene.  Eight  male  and  one  female 
characters.  Can  be  played  in  “white  face”  if  desired.  Plays 
fifteen  minutes. 

Oh,  Well,  It’s  No  Use.  In  One  Scene.  Three  male  characters. 
A  very  funny  sketch,  full  of  genuine  darkey  humor.  Plays 
twenty  minutes. 

Here  She  Goes,  and  There  She  Goes.  In  One  Act.  Eight 
male  and  one  female  characters.  An  uproariously  funny  piece 
of  great  popularity.  Plays  twenty-five  minutes. 

Finished  Education.  A  P'inale  for  the  “Eirst  Part”  of  a 
Minstrel  Entertainment.  Three  speaking  characters.  No  change 
of  scene 

Black  Blunders.  In  Two  Scenes.*  Nine  males  and  three  females. 

.  Scenery  simple;  costumes  eccentric.  Very  lively  and  amusing. 
Plays  twenty-five  minutes. 

*H0  Old  Parson.  A  “First  Part  Finish”  for  a  Minstrel  Enter¬ 
tainment.  Six  speaking  characters.  No  change  of  scene. 
Sublime  and  Ridiculous.  In  One  Scene.  Three  male  characters. 
Scenery  and  costumes  very  simple.  A  sure  hit  for  a  good  burlesque 
comedian.  Plays  twenty  minutes. 

diveryday  Occurrences.  A  “First  Part  Finish”  for  a  Minstrel 
Entertainment.  Three  speaking  characters.  No  change  of  scene. 
*adly  Sold.  In  Two  Scenes.  Four  male  characters  and  supers. 
A  very  funny  piece.  Can  be  played  “  white  face  ”  with  equally 
good  effect.  Plays  twenty  minutes. 

Dur  Colored  Conductors.  In  Two  Scenes.  Three  male  char¬ 
acters  and  ten  supers.  This  is  an  uproariously  funny  “  skit  ”  and  a 
sure  hit.  Plays  twenty  minutes. 


Catalogues  describing  the  above  and  other  popular  entertainments 
sent  free  on  application  to 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO., 

THEATRICAL  PUBLISHERS, 

Mo.  23  Winter  Street  -  BOSTON,  MASS. 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


A  COMEDY  IN  TWO  ACTS. 


/  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 

'“Better  than  Gold,”  “Our  Folks,”  “  The  Flower  of  the  Family,”  “  En¬ 
listed  for  the  War,”  “  My  Brother’s  Keeper,”  “The  Little  Brown  Jug,” 
“  Above  the  Clouds,”  “  One  Hundred  Years  Ago,”  “Among  the  Breakers,” 
“  Bread  on  the  Waters,”  “  Down  by  the  Sea,”  “  Once  on  a  Time,”  “  The 
Last  Loaf,”  “  Stand  by  the  Flag,”  “The  Tempter,”  “A  Mysterious  Dis¬ 
appearance,”  “  Paddle  Your  Own  Canoe,”  “A  Drop  too  Much,”  “A  Little 
More  Cider,”  “A  Thorn  Among  the  Iioses,”  “Never  Say  Die,”  “Seeing 
the  Elephant,”  “The  Boston  Dip,”  “The  Duchess  of  Dublin,”  “Thirty 
Minutes  for  Refreshments,”  “  We’re  all  Teetotalers,”  “A  Close  Shave,” 
“A  Public  Benefactor,”  “  A  Sea  of  Troubles,”  “  A  Tender  Attachment,” 
“Coals  of  Fire,”  “Freedom  of  the  Press,”  “Shall  Our  Mothers  Vote?” 
“Gentleman  of  the  Jury,”  “Humors  of  the  Strike,”  “My  Uncle  the 
Captain,”  “New  Brooms  Sweep  Clean,”  “  The  Great  Elixir,”  “The  Hy¬ 
pochondriac,”  “The  Man  with  the  Demijohn,”  “The  Runaways,”  “The 
Thief  of  Time,”  “  Wanted,  A  Male  Cook,”  “A  Love  of  a  Bonnet,”  “A 
Precious  Pickle,”  “No  Cure  No  Pay,”  “The  Champion  of  Her  Sex,” 
“The  Greatest  Plague  in  Life,”  “The  Grecian  Bend,”  “The  Red  Chignon,” 
“Using  the  Weed,”  “ Lightheart’s  Pilgrimage,”  “The  Revolt  of  the 
Bees,”  “The  Sculptor’s  Triumph,”  “The  Tournament  of  Idylcourt,” 
“The  War  of  the  Roses,”  “An  Original  Idea,”  “  Bonbons,”  “  Capuletta,” 
“Santa  Claus’ Frolics,”  “  Snow-Bound,”  “The  Merry  Christmas  of  the 
Old  Woman  who  lived  in  a  Shoe,”  “The  Pedler  of  Very  Nice,”  “The 
Seven  Ages,”  “Too  Late  for  the  Train,”  “The  Visions  of  Freedom,” 
“Rebecca’s  Triumph,”  “Comrades,”  “Past  Redemption,”  “Nevada,” 
“  Messmates,”  &c.,  &c. 


BOSTON 


amateur  dramas 

FOR 

PARLOR  THEATRICALS,  EVENING  EN¬ 
TERTAINMENTS  AND  SCHOOL 
EXHIBITIONS. 


GEORGE  M.  BAKER. 


CONTAINING 


Sylvia’ 8  Soldier. 

Wanted,  a  Male  Cook. 

A  Sea  of  Troubles. 

We’re  all  Tetot alleys. 
Freedom  of  the  Press. 

The  Rival  Poets. 

The  Pedler 


Stand  by  the  Flag. 

The  Tempter. 

The  Greatest  Plague  in  Life. 
A  Drop  too  Much. 

The  Sculptor’s  Triumph. 
Once  on  a  Time. 

Very-Nice. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 
GEO.  M.  BAKER, 

in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
COPYRIGHT,  1894,  BY  Emily  F.  Baker  (in  renewal). 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER 


A  Comedy  in  Two  Acts • 

_ 

.  o 

CHARACTERS. 

Mb.  Horton.  i  Horace  Lyford. 

1  Arthur  Horton.  |  Sylvia  Horton. 
Bessie  Bray. 


X 


£ 


COSTUMES. 
Modern  and  Appropriate. 


ACT  I. 

Apartment  in  Mr.  Horton’s  House.  Tables , 
R.  and  l.  Lounge ,  Easy-chairs ,  Vases  and 
Flowers ,  all  arranged  with  taste.  Entro  ic( s 
r.  and  l« 

( Enter  Mr.  Horton,  l.,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand.) 

Mr.  Horton.  Nearly  ten  o’clock,  and  Sylvia  still 
away.  What  can  keep  her  all  this  while  ?  It’s  not  more 
than  ten  minutes’  walk  to  the  post-office,  and  she  has 
been  gone  nearly  two  hours.  The  house  seems  deserted  : 
I’ve  wandered  from  cellar  to  attic,  and  not  a  soul  can  I 

find  A  regular  stampede  ( looking  off  r.).  Ah  !  there’s 

7 


Scene. 

o' 

£ 


8 


sylvia’s  soldier* 


some  one  at  last.  Here,  Bessie,  Bessie  !  ( Enter  Bessie, 
r.)  Where  the  dickens  is  everybody? 

Bessie.  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know,  sir  :  it’s  as  much  as  1 
can  do  to  look  after  my  own  little  body,  without  troubling 
myself  about  everybody. 

Mr.  H.  Where’s  Sylvia? 

Bessie.  Gone  for  your  paper. 

Mr.  H.  Where’s  Arthur? 

Bessie.  Gone  fishing,  the  booby ! 

Mr.  H.  Booby !  Why,  bless  my  soul !  you  and  he 
have  not  been  quarrelling,  I  hope.  I  thought  you  were  the 
best  of  friends. 

Bessie.  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  the  best  of  friends  !  I’d  like 
to  box  his  ears. 

Mr.  H.  Box  his  ears  !  Why,  Bessie  !  What  foi  ? 

Bessie.  The  great  silly  goose  !  ne  must  go  and  fall  in 
iove. 

Mr.  H.  In  love  !  Our  Arthur  in  love  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  1 
That’s  too  good ! 

Bessie.  But  I  say  it’s  too  bad. 

Mr.  H.  But  who  is  he  in  love  with? 

Bessie.  With  me. 

Mr.  H.  W  ith  you  ?  And  you  want  to  box  his  ears  for 
that  ? 

Bessie.  To  be  sure  I  do.  What  business  has  he  tc 
fall  in  love  with  me?  Just  as  we  had  begun  to  have  such 
sport  at  croquet  and  boating,  he  must  needs  transform 
himself  into  a  lover.  Lover,  indeed  !  I  don’t  want  him 
Bighing  and  groaning  about  me :  it  spoils  all  the  fun. 

Mr.  H  You  don’t  like  him,  then? 

Bessie.  Yes,  I  do,  and  that’s  why  I  complain  :  I  want 


•tlvia’s  soldier. 


9 


a  playmate,  and  not  a  lover.  What’s  the  use  of  trying  to 
play  croquet  with  a  man  who’s  afraid  of  beating  you  at 
the  game,  who  stops  every  three  minutes  to  heave  a 
sigh,  and  who  rolls  his  eyes  as  though  he  were  going 
into  a  fit?  If  ever  I  hear  Arthur  sigh  again,  I’ll  box 
his  ears ;  you  see  if  I  don’t. 

Mr.  H.  Where  is  he  now? 

Bessie .  Gone  off  fishing.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  if  the  fish 
get  sight  of  his  dismal  face,  good-by  to  his  luck.  Oh,  I 
do  hope  he’ll  tumble  into  the  water ! 

Mr.  H.  Why,  Bessie !  Bessie !  don’t  talk  so.  Do 
you  know,  Bessie,  that  this  is  what  I  most  desire  ?  When 
your  poor  mother,  dying,  bequeathed  me  her  daughter,  I 
confess  I  was  not  much  pleased  with  the  legacy  ;  but  as 
the  years  have  rolled  away,  and  I  have  seen  you  growing 
up  by  the  side  of  my  own  dear  girl,  bright,  happy,  and 
affectionate,  my  old  heart  has  warmed  to  you,  and  it 
would  be  the  dearest  wish  of  my  life  to  call  you 
daughter. 

Bessie.  Well,  but  I  am  your  daughter,  your  adopted 
daughter  ? 

Mr.  H.  Oh,  yes  !  but  I  join  with  my  son  in  wishing 
to  make  you  really  one  of  the  family. 

Bessie.  Oh,  dear  me  !  here’s  another  wants  to  get  me 
married.  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know  what  I  have  done  to 
make  you  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me. 

Mr.  H.  Why,  bless  me !  Bessie,  you’ll  be  nearer 
than  ever,  you’ll  — 

Bessie  (interrupting).  Oh  !  here  comes  Sylvia.  Please 
don’t  say  any  thing  more. 

Sylvia  (without,  r.).  Not  a  step,  sir:  I  will  not 


10 


btlvia’s  soldier. 


allow  it.  ( Enter ,  r.)  Here,  father,  he:«e’s  your 

paper. 

Mr.  H.  Why,  Sylvia !  who  is  that  you  are  driving 

away? 

Sylvia.  Only  Mr.  Lyford. 

Mr.  H.  Only  Mr.  Lyford  !  Why,  dear  me,  child,  you 
mustn’t  do  that.  ( Starts  for  door ,  r.,  calling')  Lyford! 
Here,  Lyford  !  (Sylvia  runs  after  him ,  and  brings  him 
down ,  c.) 

Sylvia.  Now,  stop,  father,  if  you  please.  Mr.  Ly¬ 
ford  is  my  property  ;  and  as  I  don’t  choose  to  have  him 
come  in  at  present,  you  will  oblige  me  by  not  interfering. 

Mr.  H.  Why,  I  should  think  he  was  your  slave. 

Sylvia.  Well,  he  is. 

Mr.  H.  What  ? 

Sylvia.  I  take  his  word  for  it ;  he’s  told  me  so  fifty 
times. 

Bessie  (aside).  He’s  another  booby. 

Mr.  H.  Well,  but,  girl,  what  has  kept  you  so  long? 

Sylvia.  Oh,  father  !  there’s  such  dreadful  news  :  our 
troops  have  met  with  a  terrible  disaster  and  have  been 
driven  back  to  the  Capital  in  disorder.  The  whole 
country  is  in  an  uproar  ;  new  troops  are  called  for  ;  and, 
oh,  dear  !  I  wish  I  was  a  man  ! 

Mr.  H.  Bless  my  soul !  ( Seats  himself  at  table ,  r., 
with  ’paver).  The  cowards! 

Sylvia.  Cowards  !  No,  indeed,  father,  it  is  not  cow¬ 
ardice  ;  bad  management  has  caused  this  disaster.  The 
brave  men  who  could  so  readily  spring  to  arms  at  their 
country’s  call  cannot  be  cowards.  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  a 
man  1 


sylyia’s  soldier. 


1 


Bessie .  You  silly  thing !  what’s  the  use  of  wish 
ing  that?  Catch  me  in  any  such  scrape  if  I  was  a 
man. 

Sylvia.  Why,  Bessie,  have  you  no  patriotism? 

Bessie.  Yes,  indeed  ;  but  I  do  hate  cannon-balls  and 
bayonets. 

Mr.  H.  ( who  has  been  reading  paper ,  starts  up ) .  Bless 
me  !  this  is  terrible  news.  I  must  go  to  the  village  :  1 
may  be  of  some  assistance. 

Sylvia.  Oh,  do,  father,  urge  the  men  to  go  !  You 
know  how  to  talk  to  them.  Bessie  and  I  will  do  all  we 
can*  for  their  comfort. 

Mr.  H.  Yes,  yes  ;  hunt  up  all  the  blankets,  socks,  and 
flannels  about  the  house  :  I  will  soon  return.  (Exit,  r.) 

Bessie.  Oh,  dear  !  here’s  an  end  to  all  our  fun. 

Sylvia.  Fun!  why,  Bessie,  how  can  you  talk  so? 
Where’s  Arthur?  ( Enter  Arthur,  l.  ;  he  has  a  basket 
in  one  hand ,  a  fishing-pole  over  his  shoulder ,  and  clothes 
and  face  are  liberally  sprinkled  with  mud.) 

Bessie.  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know  where  he  is  :  the  last 
I  saw  of  him  he  was  up  to  ears  in  love. 

Arthur  ( coming  down ,  c.).  And  the  last  I  saw  of 
him,  he  was  over  ears  in  mud. 

Bessie.  Good  gracious  !  what’s  the  matter? 

Sylvia.  Why,  Arthur  !  where  have  you  been  ? 

Arthur.  At  the  bottom  of  the  stream,  making  geo¬ 
logical  surveys  in  the  mud.  The  soil  was  rather  soft ;  so 
I  didn’t  stop  long. 

Sylvia.  How  did  it  happen? 

Arthur.  It’s  all  along  of  that  girl  (with  a  sigh).  0 
Bessie  Bray ! 


y.  OF  ELL  LIES. 


12 


Sylvia’s  soldieb. 


Bessis.  Me  !  Why  you  haven’t  been  committing  sub 
cide  ? 

Arthur  Well,  not  exactly,  as  “  I  still  live.” 

Sylvia .  At  the  bottom  of  the  stream  !  I  don’t  under¬ 
stand. 

Arthur.  Neither  did  I  till  I  got  there.  It’s  all  very 
well  u  going  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  ;  ”  but  going  under, 
in  a  muddy  stream,  is  not  just  the  sport  I  like. 

Bessie.  Didn’t  I  tell  you  not  to  go  fishing? 

Arthur.  Oh,  yes !  you’re  always  telling  me  what  I 
don’t  want  you  to  ( with  a  sigh). 

O  Bessie  Bray! 

How  could  you  say  — 

Bessie.  You’re  a  goose  ! 

Arthur.  Call  me  a  duck ;  ’twill  be  nearer  the  truth. 
This  all  comes  of  your  hard-heartedness.  I’ve  ruined 
my  clothes,  and  caught  the  influenza  ;  and  it’s  all  for  love 
of  you. 

O  Bessie  Bray! 

How  could  you  say  — 

Sylvia.  Arthur,  you  must  go  and  change  your  clothes 
directly. 

Arthur.  So  I  will:  it  will  give  me  a  better  appear¬ 
ance,  and  no  doubt  be  more  comfortable.  O  Bessie 
Bray  !  may  you  never  suffer  the  torments  which  agitated 
my  frame  as  I  sat  upon  that  high  rock  by  the  side  of  the 
stream  !  Musing  upon  your  obdurate  heart,  I  was  com¬ 
posing  a  few  lines  to  express  my  heartsick  feelings.  I 
had  arranged  but  two,  — 

O  Bessie  Bray! 

How  could  you  say,— 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


13 


when  a  gigantic  eel  (wasn’t  he  a  whopper !)  fastened 
himself  upon  my  hook,  and  drew  me  from  my  lofty 
perch  and  lofty  thought.  I  lost  it. 

Bessie.  What!  the  eel? 

Arthur.  The  eel !  no,  the  lofty  thought. 

Bessie.  The  lofty  seat  too.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Arthur  ( crosses ,  r.).  Oh,  mockery!  That  laugh  is 
torment  to  my  lacerated  soul.  Farewell !  I  leave  yoi 
forever.  ( Exit ,  r.) 

Bessie.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Poor  fellow  ! 

Sylvia.  Poor  fellow !  what  is  the  meaning  of  this, 
Bessie  ? 

Bessie.  It  means  that  silly  goose  has  fallen  in  love 
with  me. 

Sylvia.  Indeed !  I  am  glad  of  that,  Bessie ;  and  I 
hope,  dear  Bessie,  you  will  favor  his  suit. 

Bessie.  Now,  this  is  too  bad :  you  want  to  get  rid 
of  me. 

Sylvia.  Get  rid  of  you !  Oh,  no  !  I  love  you  too 
well  not  to  feel  happy  at  the  prospect  of  having  you  for 
a  sister. 

Bessie.  But  I  don’t  want  to  favor  anybody’s  suit. 
Why  couldn’t  he  fall  in  love  with  somebody  else? 

Sylvia.  Would  that  have  pleased  you,  Bessie? 

Bessie.  Why,  yes  —  no  :  oh,  dear  me  !  I  do  wish  folks 
would  let  me  alone  (crosses,  r.).  Why,  I  declare  !  there 
is  Mr.  Lyford  on  the  piazza,  looking  as  melancholy  as  an 
owl.  Do  let  me  send  him  in? 

Sylvia.  Well,  he  may  come  in.  ( Exit  Bessie,  r.) 
( Sylvia  seats  herself  at  table ,  r.  ;  takes  up  paper.)  Those 
dreadful  lines  stare  me  in  the  face  agaii  :  “  Terrible  dis- 


14 


SYLVIA'S  SOLDIER. 


aster  to  the  Federal  troops.”  What  a  fearful  blow  to  the 
hopeful  hearts  who  saw,  in  the  brave  uprising  of  the 
North,  the  speedy  overturn  of  this  wicked  Rebellion ! 
Oh  that  I  could  find  some  way  to  show  my  sympathy  its 
this  dark  hour  !  ( Enter  Lyford,  r.) 

Lyford  (l.).  Dear  Sylvia  !  at  last  you  have  relented, 
and  once  more  made  me  happy. 

Sylvia.  Indeed  !  I  had  quite  forgotten  you. 

Lyford.  Nay,  do  not  say  so !  you  must  have  been 
thinking  of  me,  or  I  should  not  have  been  sent 
for. 

Syl  via.  You  must  thank  Bessie  for  that.  If  she  had 
not  spoken  of  you,  I  should  have  forgotten  there  was 
such  a  man  in  the  world. 

Lyford.  Indeed  !  where  were  your  thoughts,  then  ? 

Sylvia  (rises).  Where  those  of  every  patriotic  man 
and  woman  should  be  in  this  fearful  hour.  O  Horace 
Lyford  !  can  you  be  thus  unmoved  when  disaster  has 
overtaken  the  loyal  army?  Can  you  loiter  here  when 
your  country  calls  for  defenders? 

Lyford.  No,  Sylvia,  I  am  not  unmoved.  My  heart 
throbs  in  sympathy  with  our  brave  boys,  overtaken  with 
disaster ;  my  blood  boils  with  indignation  at  the  base¬ 
ness  of  the  traitorous  foe ;  and  I  long  to  join  the  noble 
army  of  freemen. 

Sylvia.  Then  why  are  you  here? 

Ijyford.  You  ask  me  why?  You,  who  first  taught  me 
to  see  in  woman’s  eyes  the  beacon-light  to  happiness. 
You,  whose  steps  I  have  followed  with  pleasure  never 
known  before  ;  whose  smile  has  been  an  inspiration  to 
wake  within  my  soul  all  high  and  noble  feelings,  anu 


•ylvia’s  soldier. 


15 


whom  I  love  with  a  devotion  never  dreamed  of.  You 
ask  me  why? 

Sylvia.  Surely  the  present  is  no  time  to  waste  in 
dalliance  for  a  woman’s  favor. 

Lyford.  You  say  true,  Sylvia.  It  is  not.  But  I 
have  thought  that  a  man  going  forth  to  fight  the  battles 
of  his  country,  brave  though  he  be,  is  braver,  and 
serves  his  country  better,  when  he  knows  he  carries  with 
him  a  woman’s  love.  To  gain  that  incentive,  I  have 
waited. 

Sylvia.  And  that  gained  ? 

Lyford.  I  am  in  the  field,  ready  to  dare  all,  to  die,  if 
need  be,  to  show  myself  worthy  of  that  love.  Speak, 
Sylvia  !  have  I  waited  in  vain  ? 

Sylvia.  O  Horace  !  this  is  noble  ;  this  is  just. 

Lyford.  Speak,  Sylvia  !  I  must  have  your  answer. 
Even  now  a  commission  awaits  me  at  the  Governor’s. 

Sylvia.  A  commission? 

Lyford.  Yes :  a  commission  as  lieutenant.  Come, 
dear  Sylvia,  your  answer? 

Sylvia.  You  shall  have  it.  I  will  never  wed  one, 
who,  when  his  country  is  calling  for  men ,  —  men  to  bear 
the  musket,  to  toil,  to  fight,  —  can  basely  stoop  to  accept 
a  commission. 

Lyford.  Why,  Sylvia !  commissioned  officers  must 
fight  as  well  as  enlisted  men.  There  must  be  some  to 
command.  Shoulder-straps  are  not  to  be  despised. 

Sylvia.  When  they  are  earned,  not  bought.  I  can 
honor  these  emblems  of  command  when  they  are  worn 
a  brave  man,  who  on  many  a  bloody  field  has  won 
the  right  to  wear  them.  The  sickening  accounts  of 


:6 


sylyia’s  soldier. 


loitering  officers  at  Washington  have  cured  i.ie  ef  any 
love  I  might  have  felt  for  shoulder-straps. 

Lyford.  As  you  please.  I  am  then  rejected? 

Sylvia.  Yes. 

Lyford.  Were  I  to  enlist  in  the  ranks? 

Sylvia.  Will  you? 

Lyford.  Sylvia,  you  are  doing  this  to  try  my  love, 
You  could  not  wish  to  have  me  disgrace  myself.  Think 
of  my  condition  and  prospects  :  my  father  would  never 
consent  to  have  me  in  the  ranks,  when  money  can  place 
me  in  a  higher  position. 

Sylvia.  Disgrace  !  the  meanest  peasant,  who,  in  a 
foreign  land,  bowed  beneath  the  oppressor’s  power,  is 
ennobled  when  he  bears  a  musket  in  the  cause  of  lib¬ 
erty. 

Lyford.  I  see  the  course  you  wTould  have  me  adopt. 
I  cannot  consent  to  it. 

Sylvia.  Then  ’tis  best  we  part. 

Lyford.  And  will  this  parting  cause  you  no  pain? 

Sylvia  ( after  a  struggle).  No. 

Lyford.  I  have  been  mistaken,  then.  Farewell ! 
Sylvia,  I  go  to  serve  my  country.  Should  I  fall,  my 
last  thought  will  be  of  you  ;  my  last  prayer,  for  your 
happiness.  Farewell !  ( Exit ,  r.) 

Sylvia  (at  tableau.).  Gone!  and  this  man  says  he 
loves  me,  has  sat  at  my  feet,  and  begged  of  me  to  show 
him  some  way  by  which  he  might  prove  his  devotion ; 
and  my  first  request  is  unfulfilled  :  he  leaves  me,  no 
doubt,  thinking  it  a  foolish  girl’s  whim.  He  serve  his 
country  with  his  whole  heart !  He  little  thinks  what  a 
power  the  name  of  Horace  Lyford  would  have  been  on 


•ylvia’s  soldier. 


17 


the  enlistment-rolls.  The  whole  village  wculd  have 
followed  the  example  he  set.  Well,  I’ll  think  of  him  no 
more.  He  has  earned  no  right  to  know  how  much  I 
love  him.  ( Enter  Mr.  Horton,  r.) 

Mr.  H.  (l.).  Bless  my  soul!  Only  think  of  it! 

Sylvia  (r.).  What’s  the  matter,  father? 

Mr.  H.  Matter,  child  !  Disgrace,  infamy  !  To  think 
that  the  village,  bearing  so  warlike  a  title  as  Warwick,  is 
unable  to  raise  a  single  man  to  respond  to  the  call  of  the 
country  !  North,  east,  west,  and  south,  the  whole  country 
is  rising,  and  we  cannot  send  one  man.  Yes,  we  will ! 
I’ll  go  myself. 

Sylvia.  How  !  no  one  willing  to  volunteer  ? 

Mr.  H.  Not  one  :  that’s  the  trouble.  If  we  can  only 
find  the  first  one,  the  rest  will  follow :  but  they  loiter 
about,  casting  wistful  glances  at  the  flag,  and  more  wist¬ 
ful  glances  into  each  other’s  faces  ;  for  ail  the  world  like 
a  flock  of  sheep  waiting  for  some  old  wether  to  lead  the 
way.  • 

Sylvia.  Oh  that  I  were  a  man  ! 

Mr.  H.  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  were  ! 

Sylvia.  Where’s  Arthur?  He  will  lead,  I  know. 

Mr.  H.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  He  might  lead  in  a  country 
dance,  but  not  in  a  fight.  I  wouldn’t  trust  him  in  the 
village  for  the  world ;  he’d  scare  away  all  who  are  dis¬ 
posed  to  go. 

Sylvia.  Will  not  money  tempt  them? 

Mr.  II.  No  :  I  have  tried  that. 

Sylvia.  Then  let  me  make  an  effort.  You  have 
been  very  indulgent  to  me,  father. 

Mr.  H.  Have  I?  well,  you  have  deserved  it. 

2 


18 


stlvia’s  soldier. 


Sylvia.  Be  still  more  indulgent,  and  let  me  have  mj 

way  now. 

Mr.  H.  Why,  what  would  you  do? 

Sylvia.  That’s  a  secret.  You  will  let  me  do  as  I 

please  ? 

Mr.  H.  Yes  ;  for  I  know  what  you  do  will  be  right. 

Sylvia.  Thank  you  !  Who  is  the  recruiting-officer? 

Mr.  H.  Archy  Blake. 

Sylvia.  My  old  friend  Archy !  Oh,  then  I  shall 
have  no  difficulty.  Good-by,  father !  I  must  send  a 
uote  to  Archy  Blake.  [Exit,  l.) 

Mr.  H.  Now,  what  scheme  can  that  girl  have  in  her 
head?  No  matter  ;  she  can’t  go  wrong  ;  I  will  trust  her. 
{Enter  Arthur,  r.  ;  his  muddy  appearance  has  dis¬ 
appeared.)  Why,  Arthur,  where  have  you  been  all  the 
morning  ? 

Arthur.  Studying,  sir  ;  studying  ;  deep  in  the  mysteries 
of  geology.  Deep  in  Hitchcock’s  and  Hugh  Miller’s 
iheories. 

Mr.  H.  Well,  sir,  do  they  make  it  clear? 

Arthur.  Oh,  yes!  wonderfully  clear  {aside),  clear  as 
mud.  But  where's  Bessie? 

Mr.  H.  Hark  you,  sir !  Do  you  know  the  whole 
country  is  in  an  uproar? 

Arthur.  About  Bessie  ? 

Mr.  H.  About  Bessie?  No,  sir:  there  has  been  a 
terrible  disaster  to  the  Federal  troops. 

Arthur.  So  I  have  heard.  Don’t  see  how  those  chaps 
can  go  to  that  blasted  country :  I’m  glad  I’m  not  a 
soldier. 

Mr.  H.  Glad,  sir !  Why,  sir,  were  I  of  your  age,  I 


Sylvia’s  soldieb. 


IS 


should  be  proud  to  shoulder  a  musket  in  defence  of 
liberty. 

Arthur.  Oh,  yes  !  It’s  all  very  well  for  those  who  like 
it ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  don’t  fancy  marching  forty  miles 
before  breakfast,  with  the  chances  of  having  for  my 
next  meal  a  fifty-pound  shot  deposited  in  my  bread¬ 
basket,  without  the  usual  method  of  mastication. 

Mr.  H.  Oh,  pshaw  !  All  men  must  meet  Death. 

Arthur.  Yes :  I  suppose  so  ;  but  I’m  not  going  to 
meet  him  half-way. 

Mr.  H.  My  son,  I’m  afraid  you’re  a  coward. 

Arthur.  Are  you?  Well,  I’m  not  afraid  of  it;  I 
rather  like  it ;  it  saves  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Being  a 
coward,  you’re  not  expected  to  stop  runaway  horses, 
climb  shaky  ladders  to  rescue  shrieking  females  and 
babies,  plunge  into  chilly  water  to  relieve  unfortunate 
individuals  sinking  for  the  last  time.  To  be  sure,  you 
don’t  get  the  glory  of  being  puffed  by  the  newspapers : 
but,  then,  you  can  take  your  comfort ;  and,  to  my  mind, 
that  is  to  be  preferred. 

Mr.  H.  Then  you  won’t  be  a  soldier? 

Arthur.  Yes,  I  will :  make  me  a  major-general  or  a 
quartermaster,  I  don’t  care  which,  and  I’ll  be  a  sol¬ 
dier  ! 

Mr.  H.  Why  are  you  thus  particular? 

Arthur.  Because  you  seldom  hear  of  such  soldiers  being 
shot,  which  proves  their  duties  keep  them  out  of  danger. 

Mr.  H.  Pshaw,  pshaw,  boy  !  this  is  nonsense.  (Erir 
ter  Bessie,  l.) 

Bessie.  O  Arthur !  I’m  so  glad  I  have  found  you ! 
Here,  hold  this  yarn  for  me,  that’s  a  good  fellow :  I’m 


20 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


going  to  knit  a  pair  of  socks  for  the  soldiers  ( seats  her 
self  in  chair ,  centre  of  stage).  Why  !  don’t  you  hear? 

Arthur.  Oh,  yes  !  I  hear  you  (sighs)  ;  I  always  lieai 
you  [sighs).  If  I  hadn’t  listened  to  your  beguiling 
voice,  I  should  be  a  happier  man. 

Bessie.  Why,  you  great  goose !  haven’t  you  done 
that  yet?  Now,  look  here,  Arthur  Horton  :  you  just  sit 
down,  and  hold  this  yarn  ;  and,  if  I  hear  one  of  those 
melancholy  sounds  coming  out  of  your  mouth,  I’ll  box 
your  ears.  Come,  quick !  (Arthur  seats  himself  oppo¬ 
site  Bessie  very  quietly ,  and  takes  the  skein  upon  his  hands. 
Bessie  winds  the  yarn  during  the  dialogue.) 

Mr.  H.  Why,  Bessie !  you  are  becoming  a  perfect 
vixen.  (Exit,  r.) 

Arthur.  There,  Bessie  :  you  hear  what  father  says. 

Bessie.  What’s  that  to  you?  Do  as  I  tell  you. 

Arthur.  Yes,  you’d  like  to  wind  me  round  your 
lingers,  wouldn’t  you? 

Bessie.  Nothing  of  the  kind :  I  want  to  wind  this 
yarn.  Only  think,  Arthur  !  this  must  be  made  into  socks 
for  some  poor  fellow  who  may  be  left  dead  on  the  battle¬ 
field.  Isn’t  it  sad? 

Arthur .  Yes  :  it’s  a  very  melancholy  yarn. 

Bessie.  Hold  up  your  hands ;  you  are  losing  th« 
skein. 

Arthur.  I’m  more  afraid  of  losing  you.  Why,  Bes* 
sie,  how  blue  your  eyes  are  ! 

Bessie.  Oh,  pshaw  !  it’s  the  reflection  of  the  yarn. 

Arthur.  Why,  good  gracious,  Bessie  !  now  they  look 
green. 

Basie,  That’s  the  reflection  of  your  face,  you  goose  1 


•ylvia’s  soldier. 


21 


Arthur .  Now,  don’t  be  cruel,  Bessie  :  suppose  I  wap 
the  poor  fellow  who  was  to  wear  these  socks. 

Bessie.  O  Arthur  !  don’t  talk  so  !  I  would  not  have 
you  go  to  the  war  for  the  world.  I  should  die  ;  I  know  I 
should. 

Arthur  (dropping  the  yarn).  Then  you  love  me, 
Bessie  ? 

Bessie.  Well,  if  ever  I  saw  such  a  ninny !  See  how 
you’ve  tangled  the  skein ! 

Arthur  ( coming  forward).  An  idea,  by  Jove  !  an  idea  ! 
I  believe  she  loves  me.  I’ll  try  her.  She  would  die  if  I 
went  to  the  war.  I’ll  try  her.  She  won’t  let  me  go  ;  so 
I  can  afford  to  be  valiant. 

Bessie.  Arthur,  do  come  here  and  finish  the  yarn ! 

Arthur.  Never  !  I’ll  work  no  more  !  I  feel  my  soul 
firing  with  patriotism.  I  feel  that  I  must  rush  to  the 
field  of  battle  ;  that  I  must  strike  a  blow  for  liberty. 
Ensanguined  fields  float  before  my  eyes ;  bristling  can¬ 
non  beckon  me  to  glory  ;  flashing  bayonets  gleam  before 
me.  “  Is  this  a  rammer  which  I  see  before  me,  the 
handle  toward  my  hand  ?  Come,  let  me  clutch  thee.” 

Bessie.  O  Arthur  !  you  are  not  going  to  war  ? 

Arthur.  I  must ;  I  can’t  help  myself :  “  my  soul’s  in 
arms,  and  eager  for  the  fray.”  Farewell,  gentle  maid ! 
“I  go  where  glory  waits  me.”  ( Crosses  to  door ,  r.) 

Bessie  ( running  after  him ,  and  seizing  his  coat).  O 
Arthur  !  think  of  your  friends  !  you  must  not  go. 

Arthur.  Friends !  I  have  no  friends.  “  No  one  to 
Love  ;  ”  not  even  a  puppy  dog.  I’m  a  sad,  disappointed 
man :  let  me  lay  my  bones  beneath  the  clover  and  th# 
»  idelion  greens  of  the  sunny  South. 


•ylvia’s  soldier. 


22 

Bessie.  No,  no,  Arthur !  I  am  your  friend ;  I  love 
you. 

Arthur.  Ah,  indeed !  you  love  me !  you  will  be  my 
wife? 

Bessie.  No,  not  that !  I  —  I  — 

Arthur.  No  more  :  release  my  coat.  “  Glory  waits  me 
on  the  tented  field.” 

Bessie.  No,  no,  Arthur !  I  do  love  you :  I  will  be 
your  wife. 

Arthur.  You  will? 

Bessie.  Yes,  yes.  Please,  don’t  go  to  war. 

Arthur.  Pause,  patriotic  soul,  and  reflect :  glory  wait* 
you  there  ;  love  holds  you  here.  Glory  is  unpleasantly 
suggestive  of  damp  grounds,  bullets,  sabre-cuts,  and 
mosquitoes ;  love,  of  delightful  walks,  et  caetera.  I 
think  I  won’t  go,  Bessie  ;  not  to-day. 

Bessie.  Oh,  you  mustn’t  go  at  all ! 

Arthur.  Well,  then,  I  won’t.  ( Enter  Sylvia,  ft.) 

Sylvia.  Arthur,  I  have  been  looking  for  you.  Pleas* 
take  this  note  to  Archy  Blake  for  me,  will  you? 

Arthur.  To  be  sure  I  will,  Syl.  What  is  it  for? 

Silvia.  You  mustn’t  ask  questions. 

Arthur.  Oh,  no,  I  never  do  !  Do  I,  Bessie? 

Bessie .  One  moment,  Arthur,  before  you  go.  (Ab 
ihur  and  Bessie  retire  up .) 

Sylvia  (l.).  I  tremble  for  the  success  of  my  scheme 
but  I  am  sure  I  am  not  doing  wrong.  Men  must  not  Jaj 
the  only  ones  to  sacrifice  now.  This  must  succeed. 
Well,  Arthur? 

Arthur.  I  am  ready  ( takes  note).  To  Archy  Blake, 
you  say? 


I 


•tlvia’s  soldier.  23 

Sylvia.  Deliver  it  into  his  own  hands,  and  bring  me 
the  answer. 

Arthur.  1  will.  Good-by,  Bessie  ! 

Bessie.  Remember,  Arthur  :  don’t  you  go. 

Arthur.  I  will  endeavor  to  curb  my  impatient  soul. 
I’ll  not  go,  (aside)  not  if  I  know  myself.  (Exit)  r.) 

Sylvia.  Go  where,  Bessie?  Where  is  Arthur  going? 

Bessie.  He  wants  to  go  to  war. 

Sylvia.  To  war  !  I  am  glad  of  that.  Had  I  known 
it  sooner,  it  might  have  been  better. 

Bessie.  Yes  ;  but  he  is  not  going. 

Sylvia.  Why  not? 

Bessie.  Because  I  won’t  let  him. 

Sylvia.  Would  yon  stay  him  when  our  great  danger 
is  calling  for  men  ?  I  blush  for  you,  Bessie :  can  you 
make  no  sacrifice? 

Bessie.  To  be  sure  I  can  !  I  told  him  I  would  be  his 
wife  if  he  wouldn’t  go  :  I  call  that  a  sacrifice. 

Sylvia.  Sacrifice,  indeed  !  Listen,  Bessie  :  you  love 
my  brother,  and  yet  can  keep  him  by  your  side  when 
every  man  is  needed  to  repel  the  invaders  of  our  sacred 
rights  ;  it  may  be,  the  despoilers  of  our  homes.  Hear  my 
sacrifice.  (Enter  Mr.  H.,  r.)  Arthur  bears  a  note  to 
Archv  Blake,  in  which  I  give  him  power  to  offer  my 
hand  to  the  first  man  who  will  volunteer :  he  must  be 
honest ;  further,  I  do  not  care  who  he  may  be.  If  he  but 
prove  himself  brave,  I  will  marry  him  on  his  return ; 
ay,  and  love  him,  too,  with  my  whole  heart ! 

Mr.  H.  (coming  forward).  Sylvia,  you  have  done 
this? 

Sylvia.  I  have. 


24 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


/ 

Mr.  H.  It  must  not  be  :  I’ll  stop  Arthur ! 

Sylvia.  Remember  your  promise,  father.  I  had  you? 
permission  to  do  as  I  pleased. 

Mr.  H.  But  not  this  :  it  is  sacrilege* 

Sylvia.  No  :  it  is  duty  !  I  will  give  my  life  for  my 
country  :  I  will  give  my  heart  and  hand  to  the  man  who 
will  defend  her.  {Enter  Lyford,  r.) 

Lyford.  That  man  is  here. 

Sylvia.  Horace  Lyford  returned? 

Lyford.  Yes,  Sylvia,  here,  to  confess  my  error,  to 
throw  myself  at  your  feet,  to  do  your  bidding,  to  be 
your  faithful  soldier. 

Sylvia.  The  sacrifice  is  tardy. 

Lyford.  No,  Sylvia  :  it  is  no  sacrifice.  I  know,  that, 
in  the  ranks,  I  can  serve  my  country  with  honor,  and, 
blessed  with  your  love,  can,  in  the  ranks,  win  a  right  to 
promotion. 

Sylvia  {aside) .  Oh !  if  this  had  only  come  sooner . 
it  may  not  yet  be  too  late.  Father,  run  after  Arthur,  and 
tell  him  to  return. 

Mr.  H.  Arthur  is  here.  {Enter  Arthur,  r.) 

Sylvia.  Well,  Arthur? 

Arthur.  Here’s  your  answer,  Syl.  It’s  a  short  walk, 
and  I  was  in  luck  ;  caught  Archy  just  entering  his  home  ; 
got  his  answer,  and  returned  in  just  five  minutes  {to 
Bessie)  :  for,  you  know,  “  somebody’s  waiting  for  some¬ 
body.” 

Sylvia  (r.)  {opens  note ,  and  reads).  u  Thanks  for  the 
heroic  spirit  which  prompted  your  note.  Your  offer  was 
taken  at  once  by  one  Allen  Sandford,  an  honest  fellow, 
who  eagerly  signed  the  papers.  His  example  has  done 


Sylvia’s  soldier. 


25 


wonders ;  men  are  flocking  to  the  flag ;  your  country 
will  bless  you  for  the  sacrifice.”  Too  late,  too  late ! 

Lyford.  Well,  Sylvia? 

Sylvia.  Too  late,  too  late  !  I  am  the  affianced  bride 
of  Allen  Sandford  ( sinks  into  chair  at  table ,  r.). 

Lyford  (l.).  Merciful  heavens  ! 

Mr.  H.  (l.).  Bless  my  soul!  ( 'turns  to  Lyford ,  and 
takes  his  hand.) 

Bessie  (r.  c.).  Sylvia !  Your  sacrifice  has  taught  me 
my  duty,  Arthur. 

Arthur.  Well,  Bessie? 

Bessie.  A  short  time  since,  you  expressed  a  desire  to 
join  the  army. 

Arthur.  W ell  ? 

Bessie.  I  induced  you  to  stay  at  home. 

Arthur.  W ell  ? 

Bessie.  I.  checked  your  enthusiasm. 

Arthur.  W ell  ? 

Bessie.  I  now  say,  go  serve  your  country,  and  my 
blessing  go  with  you  ( sinks  at  Sylvia’s  feet ,  and  buries 
her  face  in  her  lap). 

Arthur.  O  Lord  !  I’m  a  goner  ( sinks  into  chair ,  c.). 


R. 

Sylvia,  Bessie. 


c.  l. 

Arthur.  Mr.  H.  and  Lyford* 


Quick  Curtain • 


END  OF  ACT  I* 


26 


gYLYIA’S  SOLDIER. 


act  n. 

Scene  same  as  in  Act  I.  Sylvia  discovered  at  table , 

sewing.  Bessie  in  easy -chair,  l.,  reading. 

Bessie  ( suddenly  throwing  the  booh  upon  the  floor ). 
Plague  take  the  book  !  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  it ! 

Sylvia.  Why,  Bessie  !  what’s  the  matter  ? 

Bessie.  Just  what  I  expected.  I  can  never  take 
up  a  book  but  there’s  some  fascinating  hero  in  it,  so 
devoted  to  somebody  ;  always  rescuing  some  interesting 
young  woman  on  the  brink  of  a  frightful  precipice.  Oh, 
dear  !  it’s  so  provoking  ! 

Sylvia.  You  should  not  waste  time  upon  such  sense¬ 
less  stories. 

Bessie.  Senseless  !  why,  I  declare  they  are  beautiful. 
The  provoking  part  of  them  is,  that  I  can  never  hope  to 
have  such  a  hero  ;  and  I  do  want  one  so  much.  I  wish 
I  was  as  industrious  as  you  are,  Sylvia !  You  are 
always  doing  something  for  the  comfort  of  the  soldiers : 
you  are  a  perfect  saint ! 

Sylvia.  Oh,  no,  Bessie  !  far  from  a  saint.  To  be  sure, 
I  have  accomplished  a  little  towards  the  comfort  of  our 
brave  soldiers  :  but  how  little  it  seems  compared  to  the 
great  work  they  are  engaged  in  !  The  women  of  America 
should  be  proud  of  the  opportunity  to  contribute  to  the 
comfort  of  such  heroes. 

Bessie.  To  be  sure  they  should ;  especially  if,  like 
you,  they  all  had  a  particular  hero  to  comfort. 

Sylvia.  Particular  hero !  who  mean  you  ?  I  am 
proud  to  say  there  is  no  distinction  :  1  love  them  all,  the 
dear  soldiers,  as  though  they  were  my  brothers. 


sylyia’s  soldier. 


21 


Bessie.  Ah !  but  there  is  one  who  claims  a  nearer 
iitle  than  that  of  a  brother. 

Sylvia.  I  do  not  understand. 

Bessie.  Your  knight  of  two  years  ago  !  Allen  Sand- 
ford  —  have  you  forgotten  him  ? 

Sylvia.  No,  Bessie  !  I  have  not  forgotten  him  :  ’tis 
he  who  has  forgotten  me.  I  have  never  heard  from  him  ; 
and,  if  he  is  living,  no  doubt  he  has  found  among  the 
maidens  of  the  South  some  one  to  draw  his  admiration. 

Bessie.  I  hope  he  will  never  show  himself  here  !  No 
one  knows  who  he  is,  or  where  he  belongs  :  he  is  as  mys¬ 
terious  as  one  of  the  knights  of  the  olden  time.  I  would 
not  wonder  a  bit,  if,  some  dark  night,  he  should  appear 
like  Alonzo  the  Brave,  and  carry  you  “  down  among  the 
dead  men.” 

Sylvia.  No  fear  of  that,  Bessie  !  but  should  he  come, 
or  should  he  never  return,  I  can  never  forget  his  noble 
devotion. 

Bessie.  Noble  fiddlesticks  !  but  for  his  meddling,  we 
should  never  have  lost  Horace  Lyford.  O  Sylvia  !  that 
was  a  foolish  act. 

Sylvia.  No  :  I  am  convinced  I  did  right ;  and,  should 
the  same  necessity  require  it,  I  should  do  the  same 
again. 

Bessie.  Poor  Horace  Lyford  !  he  has  disappeared  too  ; 
not  a  word  heard  from  him  since  he  left  us  two  years 
ago. 

Sylvia.  No :  even  his  father  does  not  know  of  his 
whereabouts.  The  commission  prepared  for  him  was 
never  taken,  and  he  has  disappeared  in  the  most  myste* 


nous  manner. 


28 


bylvia’s  soldier. 


Bessie.  You  have  not  forgotten  him,  Sylvia? 

Sylvia.  It  would  be  useless  to  deny  that  I  often 
think  of  him.  He  would  have  gained  honors  had  he  but 
taken  arms  in  defence  of  liberty  ;  for  he  had  all  the  ele¬ 
ments  to  make  a  hero :  but  he  can  never  be  any  thing  to 
me  ;  we  are  parted  as  surely  as  though  the  eternal  river 
flowed  between  us. 

Bessie.  Oh,  dear !  what  a  hobble  we  are  in,  to  be 
sure  !  There’s  my  devoted  admirer,  your  brother  Arthur, 
who,  for  two  long  years,  has  moped  around  the  house,  an 
invalid. 

Sylvia.  Don’t  talk  so,  Bessie !  Sickness  cannot 
always  be  avoided. 

Bessie.  But  it  might  be  in  his  case.  He’s  no  more 
sick  than  1  am:  he  never. thought  of  being  ill  until  3 
wanted  him  to  join  the  army.  If  I  but  mention  a  walk, 
he  is  as  lively  as  a  cricket,  ready  to  climb  hills  and  jump 
fences  ;  but  let  me  say  any  thing  about  a  march  or  a 
battle,  and  lie’s  as  full  of  aches  as  an  old  man  of  sixty. 
But  I’ll  never  marry  him  until  he  has  been  in  battle  ;  you 
see  if  I  do  !  I’d  sooner  marry  your  soldier,  Allen  Sand- 
ford,  whom  nobody  knows.  The  great  booby  !  I’ll  go 
this  minute,  and  plague  him  ;  see  if  I  don’t !  (Exit,  l.) 

Sylvia.  My  soldier,  Allen  Sandford  !  How  lightly  the 
name  trips  from  her  lips  !  how  heavily  it  falls  upon  my 
heart !  Forget  him?  He  is  ever  in  my  thoughts  :  every 
fresh  return  of  our  soldiers  from  the  scene  of  battle  fills 
me  with  alarm.  Every  knock  of  the  postman  startles  me 
with  fears  that  he  brings  a  missive  from  him.  Fear  ! 
why  should  I  fear  ?  Was  not  the  act,  by  which  I  affianced 
myself  to  a  stranger,  of  my  own  free  will?  I  have 


Sylvia’s  soldier. 


29 


endeavored  to  think  only  of  him ;  to  look  upon  him  as 
the  one  who,  in  the  future,  must  hold  in  his  keeping  my 
heart.  My  heart !  I  little  thought  then  it  was  not  mine 
to  give.  O  Horace  Lyford  !  why  does  your  image  so 
constantly  pursue  me  ?  why  thoughts  of  you  obscure  the 
wild  efforts  to  love  another?  No  :  resolve  as  I  will,  he 
is  ever  with  me  ;  and  I  would  give  the  world  to  catch  one 
glimpse  of  his  dear  face,  to  hear  once  more  the  sound 
of  his  dear  voice.  O  Bessie  !  you  say  true :  it  was  a 
foolish  act.  I  should  have  given  my  life  for  my  country, 
but  not  my  hand :  it  were  useless  without  the  heart,  and 
that  was  not  mine  to  give  ( covers  her  face  with  her  hands). 

Arthur  ( without ,  l.).  Oh,  pooh,  pooh !  you  little 
torment ! 

Bessie  ( without ,  l.).  Ha,  ha,  ha!  (sings,)  “If  I  had 
a  beau  for  a  soldier  would  go  !  ”  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Arthur  (enters,  l.,  in  his  dressing-gown;  has  his  face 
made  up  pale  and  haggard).  I’m  done  with  you  for¬ 
ever  :  you  have  no  heart,  no  affection.  You’re  a  little 
will-o’the-wisp. 

Bessie  (c.).  You’ll  never  be  called  a  wMl-o’the-wifip ; 
for  that  leads  people  into  danger,  and  you’d  never  do  that. 

Arthur.  Now,  Bessie,  be  reasonable.  I’m  sick,  and 
should  not  be  tormented.  Just  see  how  pale  and  thin  I’m 
growing  !  Look  at  this  haggard  face  — 

Bessie.  Poor  little  fellow  !  sick  two  years,  and  nobody 
knows  what  ails  him.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Arthur.  Now  laugh  !  This  is  horrible  !  Just  as  if  ] 
could  help  it.  The  doctors  call  it  a  curious  case. 

Bessie.  Oh,  yes,  very  curious  1  No,  it  isn’t ;  I’ve 
heard  of  Jots  just  like  it. 


30 


Sylvia’s  soldier. 


Arthur.  Where  ? 

Bessie.  In  the  army  !  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Arthur.  Oh,  confound  the  army!  I  wish  yofl  wer® 
there,  with  all  my  heart. 

Bessie .  And  I  wish  you  were  there  :  but  it’s  useless ; 
it  would  never  do  for  your  complaint. 

Arthur.  Why  not  ? 

Bessie.  Because  it  would  be  sure  to  break  out  just 
before  a  battle ;  and  then  you’d  have  to  go  to  the 
rear. 

Arthur.  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  it  is  cowardice? 

Bessie.  I  don’t  insinuate,  I  assert  you  are  a  great 
coward,  Arthur  Horton  ;  but,  before  I  marry  you,  you 
shall  see  a  battle,  or  I’ll  join  the  army  myself,  to  show 
at  least  that  there  is  a  little  fighting-stock  in  the  family ! 
(Exit,  r.) 

Arthur.  What  a  bloodthirsty  little  vixen !  She’s  as 
full  of  fight  as  a  hedgehog  !  What  does  she  know  about 
war?  I  declare,  Syl.,  she  torments  me  shamefully  ;  wants 
me  to  go  to  war,  —  a  man  of  my  consumptive  habits  ! 

Sylvia  (rising).  And  I  entirely  agree  with  her, 
Arthur.  I  blush  to  think  my  brother  is  found  wanting 
when  true  men  are  needed  in  the  army.  You  are  making 
yourself  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 
I  advise  you  to  once  more  be  a  man,  and  seriously  think 
of  the  army.  (Exit,  r.) 

Arthur.  There’s  another  fire-eater !  What  in  the 
world  ails  all  the  women?  Think  of  the  army?  I  have 
thought  of  it :  I’ve  thought  of  nothing  else  for  the  last 
two  years.  The  first  thoughts  of  it  made  me  sick,  and 
with  every  succeeding  thought  I’ve  been  getting  no  better 


•tlyia’s  soldier. 


31 


very  fast.  Oh !  if  thinking  would  do  the  business,  I 
should  indeed  be  in  the  army.  I’ve  thought  of  climbing 
battlements,  and  I’ve  also  thought  of  the  muddy  ditches 
to  wade  through,  and  the  peppering  to  take  after  you  get 
there  ;  I’ve  thought  of  glorious  gains  by  feats  of  arms, 
and  the  inglorious  loss  of  arms  and  feet :  one  quite 
balances  the  other.  I  dare  say  Bessie’s  right.  I  ought 
to  be  in  the  army.  Everybody  recommends  the  army  ; 
but  it’s  not  the  medicine  I  like.  The  doctor  feels  my 
pulse,  looks  at  my  tongue,  gives  a  grin,  and  recommends 
the  army.  Confound  the  army  !  I  wish  this  confounded 
war  was  over ;  for  I’m  heartily  sick  of  being  sick  to 
keep  out  of  it.  ( Enter  Bessie,  r.) 

Bessie.  O  Arthur,  Arthur  !  such  glorious  news  1 

Arthur.  Glorious  news  !  what  is  it? 

Bessie.  Something  you’ll  like. 

Arthur.  What  is  it,  you  chatterbox? 

Bessie.  ’Twill  meet  your  case  exactly:  you’ll  get 
well  now. 

Arthur.  What !  peace  ? 

Bessie.  Peace  ?  no :  there’ll  be  no  peace  until  yon 
go  to  war. 

Arthur.  Well,  what  is  it? 

Bessie.  We’re  going  to  have  a  draft. 

Arthur.  A  draft? 

Bessie.  Yes  ;  and  they  do  say  it  will  take  every  other 
man  :  ain’t  you  glad? 

Arthur.  O  Lord  !  ( Enter  Mr.  Horton,  r.) 

Bessie.  O  Mr.  Horton  !  I’ve  told  Arthur  about  the 
draft,  and  he  is  delighted.  It’s  just  what  he  waited  for 
Hopes  he’ll  be  the  first  man  drawn. 


32 


•ylvia’b  soldier. 


Arthur.  What  a  whopper  !  I  said  no  such  thing. 

Mr.  H.  Yes  :  we’re  to  have  a  draft ;  fifty  able-bodied 
men  to  be  drawn. 

Arthur.  Able-bodied  !  There,  Bessie  !  I  can’t  go  ; 
I’m  sick :  you  know  the  doctors  say  so. 

Bessie .  Oh,  nonsense !  You  may  deceive  country 
doctors ;  but  you’ll  find  Uncle  Sam’s  physicians  can’t  be 
humbugged.  (Arthur  and  Bessie  retire  up  l.,  and 
quarrel  during  the  next  dialogue .) 

Mr.  H.  (r.).  Where’s  Sylvia?  ( Enter  Sylvia,  l.) 

Sylvia.  Here,  father ! 

Mr.  H.  Sylvia,  I  have  news  for  you  at  last !  Your 
soldier  has  returned. 

Syl  via.  Indeed ! 

Mr.  H.  Yes :  the  sergeant  detailed  to  superintend 
the  drafting  is  none  other  than  your  soldier,  Allen 
Sandford. 

Sylvia.  O  heavens  !  —  the  Wow  has  come  at  last  1 
( sinks  into  chair ,  r.) 

Mr.  H.  Sylvia,  you  do  not  appear  overjoyed? 

Sylvia  (recovering  herself ).  Yes,  yes!  I  am  glad  he 
has  returned.  Have  you  seen  him?  was  you  pleased 
with  him? 

Mr.  H.  Whether  I  am  pleased  or  not  makes  very 
little  difference.  He  made  himself  known  to  me  by  pre¬ 
senting  your  note  offering  him  your  hand,  and  informed 
me  he  should  shortly  come  to  claim  his  bride. 

Sylvia.  His  bride? 

Mr.  H.  Have  you  forgotten  your  foolish  bargain? 

Sylvia.  Well,  well  1  We’ll  say  no  more  about  that, 
father  1 


Sylvia’s  soldier. 


33 


Mr.  H.  Listen,  Sylvia :  I  do  not  like  this  business. 
You  do  not  love  this  man  :  he  can  have  no  legal  claim 
upon  you.  Let  me  compromise  with  him  :  a  handsome 
sum  for  the  release  of  your  hand. 

Sylvia .  This  man,  Allen  Sandford,  what  do  ^diey  say 
of  him  ?  Has  he  been  true  ? 

Mr.  H.  Yes :  his  record  is  spotless  ;  he  has  been  in 
many  battles,  and  borne  himself  bravely. 

Sylvia.  Then  so  will  I.  It  was  a  fair  and  honest 
bargain.  He  has  risked  his  life  for  my  sake  ;  his  part 
of  the  contract  has  been  well  kept :  I  will  keep  mine  ;  I 
will  marry  him  ( crosses ,  l.). 

Mr.  H.  The  hand  without  the  heart,  —  this  is  sacri¬ 
lege,  not  sacrifice  ;  the  breaking  of  a  contract  with  a 
higher  power  than  man. 

Sylvia.  Then  I  must  learn  to  love  him  !  ( Exit ,  l.) 

Mr.  H.  Here’s  pluck  !  That  girl  should  have  been  a 
major-general.  ( Exit ,  r.) 

Arthur.  Here’s  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  !  It  seems 
we’re  to  have  a  fighting  man  in  the  family. 

Bessie.  No  thanks  to  you  !  ( going ,  r.)  No  matter  ; 
you’ll  have  to  go  now.  Oh,  I’m  so  glad  ! 

Arthur.  You,  you  baggage !  I  believe  you’d  be  de¬ 
lighted  to  see  me  stretched  on  a  shutter,  with  half  a 
dozen  bullets  in  my  body. 

Bessie.  Indeed  I  would,  if  only  for  the  pleasure  of 
nursing  you.  Good-by ! 

Arthur.  Why,  where  are  you  going? 

Bessie.  Going  to  practise  a  new  song  for  your  special 
benefit. 

Arthur .  What  is  it? 


3 


34 


Sylvia’s  soldier. 


Bessie  (sings).  “For  they’ve  drafted  him  into  the 
army.”  Goodness!  who’s  this?  —  a  soldier,  as  I  live! 
(Enter  Lyford,  r.,  disguised  as  u  Allen  Sandford .”  He 
wears  a  rusty  blue  overcoat ,  heavy  red  beard  covering  his 
face ,  rough  red  wig ,  cavalry  sword  hanging  at  his  side , 
very  rough  and  coarse  in  his  manners.) 

Bessie  (saluting).  Halt!  Who  goes  there? 

Lyford  (saluting).  Sergeant  Sandford,  on  spec^ 
service. 

Bessie.  Advance,  and  give  the  countersign  ! 

Lyford.  Of  course  !  (  Steps  up  and  puts  his  arm  around 

Bessie ,  and  kisses  her.) 

Bessie  (with  a  scream).  Oh,  dear  !  keep  away  ! 

Arthur  (starting  forward  very  much  excited).  How 
dare  you  take  such  liberties  ?  Blood  and  thunder  !  Sir, 
do  you  know  where  you  are  ?  Confound  it,  I’ll  pitch  you 
into  the  garden  ! 

Lyford.  Hallo,  hallo  !  my  gallant  shanghai,  you  crow 
loud ! 

Bessie  (coming  between  them).  Please,  sir,  don’t 
touch  him  ;  he’s  sick  ! 

Arthur.  The  devil !  I  forgot  myself. 

Lyford.  Oh!  sick,  is  he?  looks  so:  send  him  to  the 
army  ;  that’ll  cure  him. 

Arthur.  Oh,  yes  !  the  army  again  ! 

Bessie.  Please,  sir,  he  wants  to  go. 

Arthur  (aside,  pulling  Bessie* s  dress).  Shut  up,  you 
chatterbox ! 

Bessie.  But,  for  family  reasons,  he  is  kept  at  home. 
Now,  as  you  are  the  sergeant  who  has  charge  of  the 
drafting,  if  you  could  contrive  to  get  him  drafted  — 


®YLVIATS  soldleb. 


86 


Arthur  (aside).  You  little  devil  — 

Bessie.  You  would  please  him,  and  oblige  us  alls 
wouldn’t  he,  Arthur? 

Arthur.  I’ll  be  the  death  of  somebody ! 

Bessie.  Yes :  he’ll  be  the  death  of  somebody  if  he 
once  gets  among  the  rebels.  He’s  brave,  but  a  little 
modest. 

Arthur.  I  wish  you  were  ! 

Lyford.  Wants  to  go  into  the  army,  does  he?  Well, 
well,  we’ll  put  him  there,  never  fear  !- 

Bessie.  Qh,  thank  you  ! 

Lyford.  He  shall  be  placed  where  the  bullets  fly 
thickest. 

Bessie.  Oh,  thank  you  ! 

Lyford.  Now  to  business.  Where's  Miss  Horton? 

Bessie.  Gracious  !  I  forgot:  you’re  her  soldier? 

Lyford.  Yes  :  I’m  her  soldier  by  purchase. 

Bessie  (aside).  Oh,  deal* !  I  shouldn’t  like  such  a 
soldier  !  —  such  a  mop  of  hair  !  and  those  awful-looking 
bristles  ! 

Lyford  (-fiercely).  Come,  come!  why  don’t  you 
answer  ? 

Bessie.  What  a  commanding  air  !  I’ll  call  her  :  you 
talk  to  Arthur  ;  he’s  her  brother.  I  know  he’s  dying  to 
hear  of  great  battles.  (Exit,  l.) 

Lyford.  So  you’re  her  brother,  are  you?  Well,  you 
don’t  look  over  and  above  bright.  Hope  she’s  a  dif« 
ferent  article. 

Arthur.  Sir  !  —  article  ? 

Lyford.  Oh,  bother  !  what  ails  you  now  ? 

Arthur.  Hang  it,  sir,  my  sister  is  not  an  article ! 


86 


sylvia’s  soldier. 


Lyford.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  you’re  a  little  touchy, 
ain’t  you?  What’s  the  nature  of  your  complaint? 

Arthur .  A  complication  of  disorders. 

Lyford.  Yes  :  love  and  fear.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Arthur.  -Sir,  who  in  thunder  are  you? 

Lyford  (very  mysteriously).  That’s  a  secret;  but  I 
don’t  mind  telling  you,  as  we’re  so  nearly  related.  Don’t 
mind  my  smoking,  do  you?  ( Takes  a  chair ,  c. ;  pulls 
out  pipe  ;  fills  and  smokes  during  the  following  dialogue.) 

Arthur  ( aside ).  This  chap  is  refreshingly  cool.  (  Takes 
seat ,  l.) 

Lyford.  Yes,  sir :  it’s  a  secret.  I  dropped  into  these 
parts  from  the  air  ! 

Arthur.  The  air !  That’s  gas. 

Lyford.  Come,  come,  I’m  a  soldier,  and  my  word  is 
not  to  be  doubted.  I  was  found  in  an  adjoining  field,  a 
helpless  infant,  just  after  a  huge  balloon  had  passed 
over. 

Arthur.  What  a  whopper  ! 

Lyford  (fiercely).  Sir! 

Arthur.  I  was  referring  to  the  size  of  the  balloon :  of 
course,  if  it  carried  you,  it  must  have  been  a  whopper ! 

Lyford.  This  was  my  first  appearance  upon  this  ter¬ 
restrial  globe.  Romantic,  wasn’t  it? 

Arthur.  Oh,  very  !  I’ve  heard  of  the  child  of  the 
sea,  the  child  of  the  arena,  and  various  other  children : 
you  must  be  the  child  of  the  balloon ! 

Lyford.  Yes  :  I  was  dropped  from  a  balloon  — 

Arthur.  Excuse  me  one  moment :  at  what  height  was 
this  balloon  supposed  to  be  when  you  dropped  from  it? 

Lyford.  Well,  say  twelve  hundred  feet,  for  a  rough 
guess. 


Sylvia’s  sollier. 


37 


Arthur.  Were  you  alive  when  you  arrived  upon  this 
terrestrial  globe,  as  you  call  it?  Oh,  pshaw!  If  you 
dropped  from  that  height,  let’s  drop  the  subject. 

Lyford.  But  you  wish  to  know  who  I  am? 

Arthur.  No  matter :  if  your  birth  is  as  high  as  you 
mention,  that’s  quite  enough. 

Lyford.  I’ve  found  this  account  of  my  birth  generally 
answers  impertinent  questions ! 

Arthur  (rising).  Here’s  my  sister.  ( Enter  Sylvia,  l.) 

Sylvia.  Mr.  Allen  Sandford,  I  believe? 

Lyford  (keeps  his  seat ,  c.,  in  a  lounging  attitude ,  with 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth) .  Exactly  !  you’ve  hit  it,  my  pretty 
sharpshooter  ;  and  you  are  my  lady.  Well,  I’m  deused 
glad  to  see  you  !  You  see  I’m  at  home  here  already. 

Sylvia  (aside).  What  rudeness  !  Can  this  ill-man¬ 
nered  fellow  be  4the  brave  soldier  my  fancy  pictured? 
(aloud,)  You  are  very  welcome  ! 

Lyford.  Yes,  I  thought  you’d  be  glad  to  see  me. 
You  should  be  too  ;  for  I’ve  been  through  a  deal  of 
hard  work  for  your  sake. 

Sylvia.  I  can  appreciate  the  sacrifice  you  made  for 
my  sake  :  you  have  my  warmest  gratitude  ;  and,  what  is 
better,  the  consciousness  in  your  own  heart  that  you 
have  served  your  country. 

Lyford  (laughing  loudly).  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  you  are  quite 
a  patriot.  Bother  country !  Do  you  suppose  I  went 
into  this  war  for  the  sake  of  country?  Not  a  bit  of  it ! 
I  saw  in  your  proposal  a  chance  for  a  fortune.  I  knew 
this  place  well ;  I  knew  your  father’s  wealth  ;  and  I  saw 
in  your  offer  a  grand  opportunity  to  make  a  strike :  sc 
don’t  say  any  thing  about  country. 


38 


sylyia’s  soldier. 


Sylvia  {aside).  The  mercenary  wretch  !  {Alond  with 
an  effort ,)  But,  sir,  you  must  have  borne  your  country 
some  love,  or  you  would  never  have  risked  your  life  so 
nobly  as  you  have  done. 

Lyford.  Ha,  ha  !  that’s  good  !  I  risked  my  life  when 
I  couldn ’t  help  it ;  but  I  kept  a  pretty  good  lookout  for 
the  pickings,  as  many  a  reb’s  pockets  can  testify.  No 
more  about  war :  I’m  sick  of  it.  It  strikes  me  you  are 
not  very  hospitable  here  to  a  fellow  who  has  luxuriated 
on  hard-tack  for  two  years. 

Sylvia.  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  will  find  all  you 
need  in  the  next  room.  Arthur,  will  you  wait  upon  Mr. 
Sandford  ? 

Arthur.  Certainly  !  This  way,  sergeant :  you  see  my 
sister  is  a  little  flurried,  owing  to  the  agreeable  surprise . 
Come,  you  shall  not  live  upon  air  here,  my  child  of  the 
balloon.  {Exit,  l.) 

Lyford.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  That  brother  of  yours,  Sylvia,  is 
a  gay  boy :  we  must  have  him  in  the  army  {approaches 
Sylvia ,  who  shrinks  from  him).  Isn’t  it  queer,  though, 
you  and  I,  who  never  saw  each  other  before,  are  to  hitch 
for  life?  Won’t  the  boys’  eyes  sticks  out  when  they  find 
what  a  prize  the  sergeant  has  taken?  I  suppose  I  should, 
under  the  circumstances,  venture  a  little  courting ;  but, 
as  I’m  deused  hungry,  you’ll  excuse  me  if  I  pitch  into 
the  good  things  at  once.  Good-by !  {Exit,  l.) 

Sylvia.  Can  it  be  possible  that  I  have  fallen  into  thft 
clutches  of  such  a  wretch  as  that?  ( Grosses ,  r.,  and  sits 
at  table.)  Is  this  the  noble  act  of  duty  I  was  so  proud 
of?  Would  that  this  hand  had  withered  before  it  penned 
that  note  !  Have  all  my  dreams  of  hero-worship  come  to 


39 


SYLVIA  S  SOLDIER. 

this  ?  Marry  him  !  —  I  cannot,  will  not !  Every  law  ii 
the  land  shall  be  tried  but  I  will  find  some  way  to  elude 
him.  O  Horace  Lyford !  you  might  have  saved  me 
from  this.  No  :  I  will  not  blame  him  ;  it  was  my  own 
silly,  foolish,  wicked  act,  and  I  alone  must  suffer.  ( Enter 
Bessie,  r.)  O  Bessie  !  have  you  seen  that  man? 

Bessie.  What  man?  Your  lover? 

Sylvia.  Lover !  He  is  unworthy  the  name.  The 
wretch  confessed  to  me  the  act  by  which  he  bound  me 
was  with  no  heroic  spirit :  it  was  but  to  gain  my  hand  and 
fortune. 

Bessie.  I  declare  !  and  you  thought  he  had  made  such 
a  noble  sacrifice!  Well,  it’s  just  like  men:  you  can’t 
trust  one  of  them. 

Sylvia.  Where  is  my  father?  I  must  see  him  di¬ 
rectly. 

Bessie.  He  is  out. 

Sylvia.  Where’s  Arthur? 

Bessie.  With  your  lov  —  with  Sergeant  Sandford. 

Sylvia.  I  know  not  which  way  to  turn  (starts). 
What’s  that? 

Bessie.  Why,  how  nervous  you  are  !  it’s  your  soldier 
returning.  ( Lyford  laughs  outside ,  l.) 

Sylvia.  The  sound  of  his  voice  makes  me  shudder. 

Lyford  (without,  l.).  That’s  capital!  Come  along; 
let’s  find  the  ladies.  (Enter  Lyford,  followed  by  Ar¬ 
thur,  l.)  (To  Bessie.)  Ha,  my  pretty  sentinel!  will 
you  have  another  countersign?  (approaching  her.) 

Arthur.  Hands  off,  sergeant !  this  is  my  property  ! 

Lyford.  Ho,  ho!  say  you  so?  Well,  this  is  mine. 
(Crosses  to  Sylvia ,  and  throws  himself  on  the  floor  at  hei 


40 


SYLVIA  S  SOLDIER. 


feet.)  Well,  my  dear,  what  have  you  to  say  to  me? 
Fve  been  away  a  long  time,  and  a  few  sweet  words  from 
a  pair  of  beautiful  lips  would  not  be  unwelcome. 

Sylvia  ( shuddering ).  I  can  only  repeat,  we  are  all 
glad  to  see  you. 

Arthur  ( aside  to  Bessie).  There’s  a  patriot  for  you ! 
a  full-length  portrait,  and  a  regular  carpet  knight ! 

Lyford.  Yes  :  Fve  been  a  long  time  away. 

Arthur  {aside).  We  could  have  spared  you  a  little 
longer. 

Lyford.  And  I  have  encountered  my  share  of  danger. 
Many’s  the  time  I  have  marched  up  to  the  very  mouths 
of  the  enemy’s  artillery  ;  many  a  time  met  the  rebs  single- 
handed  :  always  escaped  unhurt,  save  once,  when  I  came 
very  near  being  cut  off  from  my  sphere  of  usefulness. 

Arthur  {aside).  What  a  pity  ! 

Lyford.  It  was  on  one  of  those  terrible  Wilderness 
days :  the  rebs  had  thrown  up  breastworks,  and  stoutly 
contested  our  march  ;  but  we  drove  them  at  last.  Three 
times  our  regiment  went  at  them,  and  at  the  third  cleared 
the  breastworks,  and  drove  them. 

Arthur.  What !  the  breastworks  ? 

Lyford.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  You  must  be  initiated  ( jump¬ 
ing  up).  I’ll  just  show  you  bow  it  was  ( places  table  in 
front  of  door ,  l.,  with  a  chair  in  front  of  it).  There, 
there’s  your  breastworks  :  you  shall  be  “  Johnny  Reb.” 

Arthur.  Johnny  who? 

Lyford.  The  enemy,  to  be  sure !  Come,  mount  the 
breastworks ! 

Arthur.  Oh,  very  well !  only  I’ve  no  weapon. 

Lyford  ( drawing  sword).  Here,  take  thisl 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


41 


Arthur .  All  right !  here  goes  ( takes  sword f  and  mounts 
table). 

Lyford.  I’m  the  enemy. 

Arthur.  Are  you,  though ?  Then  who  am  I? 

Lyford.  Now  look  sharp  !  the  regiment  is  preparing 
for  a  charge ! 

Arthur.  The  deuse  it  is  !  I  don’t  see  it. 

Lyford.  Zounds  !  I  am  the  regiment.  Now,  ready  ! 
Is  that  the  way  you  repel  a  charge  ?  Be  lively,  flourish 
your  sword,  and  make  a  show  of  fight  if  there  is  none 
in  you ! 

Arthur  (aside) .  I  can  do  that :  here’s  a  chance  to 
show  Bessie  my  fighting  qualities  ( flourishes  his  sword). 
Ah,  villains  !  would  you  destroy  our  homes  !  Come  on  ! 
this  aged  arm  will  hurl  you  to  perdition  !  Come  on, 
come  on,  come  on  ! 

Lyford.  Good,  keep  it  up  !  The  regiment  comes  up 
double-quick.  Muskets  at  charge,  bayonets  !  I  haven’t 
a  musket ;  but  this  will  do  ( pulls  out  pistol ,  and  cocks 
it).  Keep  it  up  ! 

Arthur  ( frightened  at  the  sight  of  pistol,  makes  a  feeble 
effort  to  appear  brave) .  Come  on  !  keep  it  up  !  Come 
on  !  He’s  got  a  pistol !  Come  on  — 

Lyford.  Now,  boys,  upon  them  !  Hurrah  !  On,  on, 
I  say  !  (  points  pistol  at  Arthur.) 

Arthur.  Put  up  that  pistol,  I  say !  Put  up  that 
pistol !  (dodging.) 

Lyford.  Keep  it  up,  I  say  ! 

Arthur.  I  won’t  do  it !  Put  up  that  pistol  1 

Bessie  (running  up  to  Lyford).  Oh,  don’t,  don’t! 
jr  du’11  scare  him  to  death  I 


42 


stlvia’s  soldier. 


Lyford  ( throwing  Bessie  one  side).  Now,  Johnny,  1 
have  you  !  Die  !  ( Fires  pistol .  Arthur ,  who  has  been 
dodging  about  on  the  table ,  drops  behind  it.  Lyford 
rushes  upon  table  and  out  of  door ,  l.) 

Arthur  ( after  a  pause ,  pops  his  head  from  under  the 
table).  I  say,  Bessie,  who  won  this  fight? 

Bessie.  I’m  sure  you  didn’t.  ( Sylvia ,  at  the  firing 
of  the  pistol ,  has  dropped  her  head  upon  the  table.)  Oh, 
dear!  what  ails  Sylvia?  ( going  to  her.) 

Sylvia  ( raises  her  head).  Nothing.  Bessie :  has  that 
man  gone? 

Arthur.  Gone  ?  I  hope  so  ;  and  so  am  I  while  he  is 
here.  ( Exit ,  r.)  ( Enter  Mr.  H.,  l.) 

Mr.  H.  Why,  girls  !  what’s  the  matter?  What  is  the 
cause  of  all  this  hubbub?  I  certainly  heard  fighting 
going  on. 

Bessie.  It  was  only  Sylvia’s  soldier  courting  a  bit. 
(Exit,  r.) 

Mr.  H.  Courting!  Well,  Sylvia,  how  do  you  like 
him? 

Sylvia  ( rising ) .  O  father  !  save  me  from  this  man : 
let  every  means  be  tried  to  break  this  contract ;  for  I  can 
never  marry  him. 

Mr.  H.  It  would  be  in  vain  for  me  to  attempt  to  in¬ 
duce  him  to  forego  his  claim  to  your  hand.  He  rests 
that  claim  upon  your  written  consent.  I  would  willingly 
assist  you,  my  daughter  ;  but  I  have  already  offered  him 
a  large  sum,  which  he  has  refused. 

Sylvia.  I  cannot  marry  him  ;  his  rudeness  frightens 
me  :  his  bearing  is  more  that  of  a  bravo  than  of  a  lover  , 
his  speech  more  like  a  ruffian  than  a  patriot.  Oh  !  I  am 


43 


SYLVIA  S  SOLDIER. 

fearfully  punished  for  my  wilfulness.  It  was  a  terrible 
mistake. 

Mr.  H.  It  was  indeed  ! 

Sylvia.  Surely  there  must  be  some  speck  of  honor 
in  this  man  !  He  will  never  force  a  union  with  one  who 
can  never  love  him.  I  will  see  him,  disclose  my  feel¬ 
ings,  and  — 

Mr.  H.  And  if  that  fail?  Remember,  Sylvia,  you 
have  given  your  word. 

Sylvia.  Fear  not,  father.  I  will  not  break  it  but 
with  his  consent.  If  I  fail  to  move  him  — 

Mr.  H.  If  you  fail? 

Sylvia.  I  will  marry  him  ( sinks  into  chair ,  r.). 

Mr.  H.  Success  attend  your  efforts !  He  comes 
this  way.  ( Exit ,  Mr.  H.,  r.) 

Sylvia.  Can  this  be  reality?  It  seems  to  me  as 
though  I  must  wake  from  a  hideous  dream  to  find  all 
this  vanished,  and  faithful  Horace  Lyford  once  more  by 
my  side.  ( Enter  Lyford,  l.,  and  approaches  her.) 

Lyford.  Alone  at  last !  This  is  fortunate.  I  began 
to  think  I  was  never  to  get  a  moment’s  conversation  with 
you.  But  tell  me,  now  you  have  seen  me,  what  do  you 
think  of  me?  Am  I  the  fancy  picture  of  5  lover  you 
hoped  to  look  upon  ? 

Sylvia.  Indeed,  sir,  I  — 

Lyford.  Oh,  I  understand !  You  expected  to  see  a 
young  dandified  stripling,  ready  with  his  silvery  voice  to 
tickle  the  ears  of  silly  and  romantic  girls.  No,  no ! 
Allen  Sandford  is  made  of  better  stuff ;  a  strong  arm 
that  can  protect  you  ;  a  stout  heart,  that,  if  you  manage 
rightly,  can  be  made  to  love  you  ;  and,  what’ s  better,  a 
cool  head  to  take  care  of  your  possessions.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I 


44 


sylyia’s  soldier. 


Sylvia  {indignantly).  Mr.  Sandford,  you  have  once 
before  alluded  to  my  fortune  !  Pray,  is  that  all  you  can 
see  in  me  to  admire? 

Lyford.  Well,  I  don’t  know !  I  did  not  expect  to 
find  a  very  sensible  young  woman  waitipg  for  my  hand ; 
for,  between  you  and  me,  the  girl  who  is  so  anxious  to 
marry,  that  she  puts  up  her  hand  as  a  prize  for  the  first 
that  offers,  cannot  be  very  strong  in  the  upper  story. 

Sylvia.  Heavens !  have  my  motives  been  so  mis- 
jud  ged?  You  forget  the  reason  for  that  offer.  You  for¬ 
get  that  even  you,  who  boast  yourself  so  brave,  would 
not  risk  your  life  in  your  country’s  service  until  it  was 
bought. 

Lyford.  That’s  very  true  ;  but  the  prize  was  worth  the 
risk !  Let’s  have  no  more  of  this.  When  will  you 
marry  me? 

Sylvia.  Sir,  this  is  speedy  wooing. 

Lyford.  A  soldier’s  time  is  not  his  own.  I  must  leave 
this  place  in  a  week :  before  that  time,  I  shall  expect  the 
fulfilment  of  the  pledge. 

Sylvia  {rising).  Mr.  Sandford,  listen  to  me.  Two 
years  ago  I  was  a  wild,  wilful  girl,  with  no  mother  to 
counsel  me,  and  spoiled  by  a  father  too  kind  to  check  my 
wild  enthusiasm.  I  warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  liberty 
and  justice.  In  the  terrible  convulsion  caused  by  the 
outbreak  of  the  Rebellion,  I  felt  all  a  girl’s  enthusiasm 
for  the  cause,  and  longed  in  some  way  to  show  my  sym¬ 
pathy  in  the  hour  of  trial.  I  rashly  gave  the  pledge  you 
hold,  —  oh !  how  rashly,  I  now  feel ;  for,  even  in  tho 
sacred  cause  of  freedom,  hearts  should  not  be  trifled 
with 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


45 


Lyford.  Hearts  !  pooh  !  Hearts  are  not  trumps  here  1 
Hands,  not  hearts ! 

Sylvia.  One  moment !  Two  years  ago,  my  hand  was 
sought  by  one  who  brought  with  him  every  inducement 
to  attract  a  woman’s  love,  —  a  handsome  person,  winning 
manners,  an  accomplished  mind.  He  loved  me  devotedly; 
but  I,  with  a  girl’s  wilfulness,  turned  him  away  because 
of  an  unfulfilled  request.  Since  that  time,  I  have  never 
seen  or  heard  of  him.  But  I  know  he  gained  my  love, 
and  that  now  he  is  avenged  for  all  my  scorn  of  him. 
I  now  love  him  with  my  whole  heart,  and  shall  love  him 
alone  while  life  shall  last. 

Lyford.  What’s  all  this  to  me  ? 

Sylvia.  If  I  read  you  aright,  nothing ;  but  I  was 
determined  you  should  know  that  I  can  never  love  you. 
There  is  a  contract  between  us,  —  my  hand  for  your 
service :  you  have  kept  your  part ;  I  am  ready  to  keep 
mine.  If  you  can  take  it  knowing  what  you  do,  there’s 
my  hand  ( extends  her  hand ,  and  turns  her  face  away). 

Lyford  (throws  off  his  disguise ,  and  appears  in  the  full 
uniform  of  a  captain).  Yes,  Sylvia,  I  will  take  it,  but 
not  without  the  heart ;  for  I  know  that  is  mine  already 
( takes  her  hand ,  and  kneels  at  her  feet). 

Sylvia  ( turning  suddenly).  That  voice!  Horace 
Lyford  returned?  You  here  again?  What  does  this 
mean? 

Lyford.  The  old  story,  Sylvia,  —  love  in  masquerade. 

Sylvia.  No,  no !  this  is  not  possible.  Where  is 
Allen  Sandford? 

Lyford.  There  is  all  that  remains  of  him  ( pointing  to 
disguise).  Pardon  me,  Sylvia:  there  has  been  ma» 


46 


Sylvia’s  soldier. 


qucrading  here ;  but,  believe  me,  I  am  none  other,  and 
Sylvia’s  soldier.  Archy  Blake  and  I  are  old  friends, 
On  receipt  of  your  note,  he  determined  to  do  me  a  favor. 
You  can  understand  the  rest,  when  I  tell  you  that  my 
name  was  already  on  the  enlistment-rolls.  The  first  too : 
so  you  see  I  am  entitled  to  the  prize.  Dear  Sylvia ! 
shall  I  have  it? 

Sylvia  {running  into  his  arms).  Oh,  this  is  too  much  ! 
I  do  not  deserve  this  happiness.  {Enter  Mr.  II.,  r.) 

Mr.  E  Well,  my  gallant  masquerader,  how  goes 
che  battle? 

Sylvia.  Why,  father  !  did  you  know  of  this  ? 

Mr.  H.  Yes  :  I’ve  been  secretary  of  war  in  this  cam¬ 
paign.  You’ve  always  had  your  own  way ;  but  for 
once  I’ve  punished  your  wilfulness. 

Sylvia  {to  Lyford ).  But  why  take  the  name  of 
another  ? 

Lyford.  Perhaps  it  was  a  foolish  pride  ;  but  I  de¬ 
termined  you  should  never  hear  of  me  but  as  a  leader  in 
the  army.  Knowing  your  fondness  for  a  private  soldier, 
I  have  returned  in  the  disguise  of  a  specimen,  which  I 
am  proud,  as  an  American  soldier,  to  say,  is  not  com¬ 
mon  in  the  army.  I  have  won  my  promotion,  and  have 
a  right,  even  in  your  eyes,  to  wear  the  shoulder-straps. 

Bessie  {outsider's,.).  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  oh,  dear! 
{Enter,  crying.) 

Sylvia.  Why  !  what’s  the  matter  now,  Bessie? 

Bessie.  My  Arthur’s  gon-gon-ne  and  joined  the  army 
Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  ! 

Sylvia.  What  a  queer  girl  I  That  is  just  what  you 
wanted. 


bylvia’s  soldier. 


47 


Bessie .  That’s  when  he  didn’t  want  to  (sees  Lyford). 
Good  heavens  !  where  did  you  come  from  ?  (shakes  hand* 
with  him.) 

Sylvia.  That’s  my  soldier  ! 

Bessie.  Your  soldier?  Why,  I  thought  — 

Lyford  ( aloud ,  saluting) .  Advance,  and  give  the  coun¬ 
tersign  ! 

Bessie.  Why,  so  it  is  (runs  up  and  kisses  him). 

Arthur  (suddenly  appears  at  door ,  r.).  Come,  I  say, 
none  of  that  before  company. 

Bessie.  Why,  here’s  Arthur  !  I  thought  you’d  joined 
the  army. 

Arthur.  So  did  I.  Good  gracious  !  where  did  you 
drop  from?  (to  Lyford ,  shaking  hands  with  him.) 

Lyford.  Twelve  hundred  feet  from  a  balloon. 

Arthur.  Ho,  ho!  that’s  the  figure,  is  it?  So  we’ve 
been  bamboozled  here.  Well,  captain,  sergeant,  that 
little  scrape  you  had  with  me  roused  the  sleeping  lion, 
and  I  went  and  volunteered. 

Bessie.  O  Arthur  !  you  didn’t? 

Arthur.  Yes,  I  did.  But  they  would’ t  have  me  : 
something’s  the  matter  with  my  great  toe. 

Bessie.  Wouldn’t  have  you?  Then  I  will ! 

Arthur.  What !  will  you,  though  ? 

Bessie.  Yes,  you  shall  be  my  soldier  ! 

Mr.  H.  Ah  !  that’s  good ;  but,  Sylvia,  why  are  yen 
silent  ? 

Lyford.  She  is  thinking  how  she  can  reward  hei 
soldier. 

Sylvia.  No,  I  am  not :  I  was  thinking  how  to  punish 
him.  He  has  dared  to  read  a  woman  a  lesson. 


48 


SYLVIA’S  SOLDIER. 


Lyford .  What  lesson,  dear  Sylvia  ? 

Sylvia.  That  she  should  never  bestow  her  hand  with 
her  eyes  shut. 

Lyford.  Not  even  in  the  cause  of  liberty? 

Sylvia.  No :  for,  by  your  masquerade,  you  have 
proved  that  even  liberty’s  heroes  are  not  always  as  do 
serving  of  a  woman’s  love  as  Sylvia’s  soldier. 

SITUATIONS  AT  END. 


Sylvia,  Lyford. 


Mr.  H. 


Arthur,  Bessie 


A  NEW  DRAMA 


A  PENNSYLVANIA  KID; 

OR, 

A  SOLDIER’S  SWEETHEART. 

A.  COMEDY  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS. 

By  FREDERIC  W.  TAYLOR. 

Eight  male  and  four  female  characters.  Costumes,  modern  and  military;  scenery 
easy  exteriors  and  plain  rooms.  This  is  an  excellent  piece  for  a  bright  soubrette,  full  ol 
opportunities  both  for  dramatic  action  and  for  specialties.  The  heroic  element  is  very 
strong,  and  its  story,  turning  upon  a  striking  deed  of  self-sacrifice,  very  sympathetic. 
The  comedy  element  is  good  and  strong,  the  parts  of  Judge  Sloyer,  Joe  Botts,  Jason 
Olds,  and  Duffy  Whitecar,  as  well  as  Ray,  the  heroine,  giving  good  humorous  oppor¬ 
tunity.  This  piece  is  easily  put  on,  and  acts  briskly  and  well.  It  has  enough  relation  to 
the  war  to  be  available  for  patriotic  purposes,  but  it  does  not  smell  of  powder. 

Price . 15  Cents. 


SYNOPSIS. 

Act  I. — The  White  Horse  Inn.  Love  and  patriotism.  Sanders  and  the  Judge. 
A  dark  scheme.  A  bright  “  Ray.”  “  I  never  see  you,  Sanders,  but  I  think  of  hogs.” 
Th«  Judge  in  a  liquor  case.  Ray  and  Jack.  A  winner  and  a  wooer.  “Unless  you 
hide  in  the  grave,  you  shall  one  day  be  my  wife.”  Duffy  and  the  gun.  Defiance. 

Act  II.  —  The  tavern  again.  An  unwilling  patriot.  Making  a  cat’s-paw.  Ray  and 
the  Quaker.  The  mermaid.  Sanders  loss.  “  If  you  cannot  return  my  money  give 
me  its  equivalent.”  The  hog-dealer’s  proposal.  Ray’s  answer.  A  startling  sequel. 

At  Bay. 

Act  III.  —  Jack’s  dilemma.  “My  country  needs  me  and  I  must  go.”  Judge 
Sloyer’s  substitute.  A  dead  man  by  proxy.  Marching  orders.  Ray’s  squad  at  drill. 
Farewells.  The  accusation.  Duffy  a  thief.  Ray  to  the  rescue.  “  He  didn’t  take  the 
money — ’twas  I!”  Wedding  ring  or  prison  fetters.  Jack’s  avowal  and  its  conse¬ 
quences.  The  arrest.  The  web  broken.  “  Come,  Jack,  fall  in.”  Rescued. 

Tableau.  —  The  field  of  Gettysburg  after  the  battle.  Joe’s  death  and  Jack’s  vin¬ 
dication.  A  Free  Man. 

Act  IV. — Ray’s  marriage.  A  good  cry.  “  I  do  not  love  the  man  I  have  married, 
and  all  his  gold  cannot  buy  me  happiness.”  The  Judge’s  private  signal.  A  coward  by 
vicar.  Sanders’s  other  wife.  “  Have  you  risen  from  the  dead  in  California  to  raise 
the  devil  in  Pennsylvania?”  Another  plot.  Polly’s  hand  in  it.  Duffy’s  long  pants. 
Jacks*  return.  Light  on  many  dark  subjects.  The  marriage  certificate.  Free!  Sail' 
ders’s  arrest.  “The  War  is  Ended.” 


FACINQ  THE  MUSIC. 

A  C  O  Ml  33  U)  I  E  T  T  A.  I  IN'  ONE  -ACT 
By  HENRY  OLDHAM  HANLON. 

Three  male  and  one  female  characters.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery,  an  easy  in¬ 
terior.  This  is  a  clever  little  play,  sprightly  in  action,  humorous  in  treatment,  an  1 
original  in  idea.  The  Bohemian  housekeeping  of  Tom  Akenside  and  Walter  Harding 
form  an  amusing  background  for  a  very  ingenious  series  of  complications. 

Price . 15  Cents. 


THREE  NEW  COMEDIES 


MR.  BOB. 

A  Comedy  in  Two  Acts. 

By  RACHEL  E.  BAKER. 

Author  of  "The  Chaperon,”  "A  King’s  Daughter,”  etc. 

Three  male  and  four  female  characters.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  one  interior, 
: ’ i e  same  for  both  acts.  This  is  a  very  bright  and  lively  little  piece,  ingeniously  con¬ 
tracted  and  full  of  comical  situations.  Mr.  Brown  is  a  capital  comedy  character,  and 
the  ladies’  parts  are  particularly  strong.  Written  for  the  Proscenium  Club  of  Roxbury, 
by  whom  it  was  first  produced. 

Price,  ....  15  cents. 


HER  PICTURE. 

A  Comedy  in  One  Act. 

By  RACHEL  E.  BAKER. 

Two  male  and  two  female  characters.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery,  an  artist’e 
studio,  easily  arranged.  A  very  clever  and  dramatic  little  play  of  serious  interest,  well 
adapted  for  parlor  performance.  Sympathetic  in  idea,  and  picturesque  in  treatment. 
All  the  parts  good.  Written  for  the  Proscenium  Club  and  first  produced  by  them. 

Price,  ....  15  cents. 


MARIE’S  SECRET. 

A  Comedy  in  One  Scene. 

By  BELLE  HARSHALL  LOCKE. 

For  two  female  characters.  Costumes,  an  evening  gown  and  servant’s  dress; 
scenery  unimportant.  This  is  a  capital  little  exhibition  piece  for  an  elocutionary  teacher 
und  a  pupil,  affording  plenty  of  emotional  opportunity.  Interesting  and  easily  gotten 


15  cents. 


A.  W.  PINERO’S  LATEST  PLAYS. 


The  Amazons. 

A.  Farcical  Romance  in  Three  Acts. 

Seven  male  and  five  female  characters.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  an 
exterior  and  an  interior,  not  at  all  difficult.  This  admirable  farce  is  too  weM 
u:.o\vn  through  its  recent  performance  by  the  Lyceum  Theatre  Co.,  New  York, 
o  need  description.  It  is  especially  recommended  to  young  ladies’  schools 
.aid  co’leges. 

Note. —  This  play  is  sold  for  reading  only.  The  acting  right  is  reserved , 
and  can  he  obtained  only  upon  payment  of  an  author's  royalty  of  $20  for  each 
performance. 

Price,  paper,  ...  50  cents. 


Sweet  Lavender. 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts. 

Seven  male  and  four  female  characters.  Scene,  a  single  interior,  the  same 
for  all  three  acts  ;  costumes,  modern  and  fashionable.  This  well-known  and 
popular  piece  is  admirably  suited  to  amateur  players,  by  whom  it  has  been  often 
given  during  the  last  few  years.  Its  story  is  strongly  sympathetic  and  its 
comedy  interest  abundant  and  strong. 

'Note.  —  This  play  is  sold  for  reading  only.  The  acting  right  is  reserved, 
and  can  only  he  obtained  upon  payment  of  an  author's  royalty  of  $20  for  each 
performance. 

Price,  paper,  ...  50  cents. 


The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith. 

A  Drama  in  Four  Acts. 

Eight  male  and  five  female  characters  ;  scenery,  all  interiors.  This  is  a 
•'‘problem”  play  continuing  the  series  to  which  “The  Profligate  ”  and  “  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  ”  belong,  and  while  strongly  dramatic  and  intensely 
hiteresting,  is  not  suited  for  amateur  performance.  It  is  recommended  for 
Reading  Clubs. 

Note.  -  This  play  is  sold  for  reading  only.  The  acting  right  is  reserved, 
and  can  only  he  obtained  upon  payment  of  an  author's  royalty  of  $20  for  each 
performance. 

Price,  paper,  ...  50  cents. 


i 


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OF  JUVENILE  OPERETTAS 


Designed  especially  for  Church,  School,  and  other  Amateur  Organ¬ 
izations.  Complete,  with  all  the  music  and  full  directions  for 
performance. 


Grandpa’s  Birthday.  In  One  Act.  Words  by  Dexter  Smith; 
music  by  C.  A.  White.  For  one  adult  (male  or  female)  and  three 
children;  chorus,  if  desired.  Price,  25  Cents. 

Jimmy,  The  Newsboy.  In  One  Act.  Written  and  composed  by 
W.  C.  Parker.  For  one  adult  (male),  and  one  boy.  No  chorus. 
Very  easy  and  tuneful.  Price,  25  Cents. 

The  Four-leafed  Clover.  In  Three  Acts.  By  Mary  B.  Horne. 
For  children  of  from  six  to  fifteen  years.  Seven  boys,  seven  girls, 
and  chorus.  Very  picturesque.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Beans  and  Buttons.  In  One  Act.  Words  by  Wm,  H.  Lepere; 
music  by  Alfred  G.  Robyn.  Two  male  and  two  female  characters; 
no  chorus.  Yery  comical  and  easy.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Hunt  the  Thimble.  In  One  Act.  Words  by  A.  G.  Lewis;  music  by 
Leo  II.  Lewis.  Two  male,  two  female  characters  and  small  chorus. 
Simple  and  pretty.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Red  Riding  Hood’s  Rescue.  In  Four  Scenes.  Words  by  J.  E. 
Estabrook;  music  by  J.  Astor  Broad.  Three  male,  four  female 
characters  and  chorus.  Price,  50  Cents. 

Golden  Hair  and  the  Three  Bears.  In  Five  Scenes.  By  J.  Astor 
Broad.  Three  adults  (2  m.,  1  f.),  eight  children  and  chorus.  Music 
is  easy,  graceful,  and  pleasing.  Price,  75  Cents. 

R.  E.  Porter ;  or,  The  Interviewer  and  the  Fairies.  In  Three 
Acts.  Words  by  A.  G.  Lewis;  music  by  Leo  R.  Lewis.  Six  male, 
six  female  characters,  and  chorus.  Yery  picturesque  and  pretty. 

Price,  75  Cents. 

Gyr,  Junior.  In  Two  Acts.  Words  by  Earl  Marble;  music  by 
Lb  F.  Hodges.  Two  males,  one  female  (adult),  three  children  and 
ch<  ns.  Yery  successful  and  easily  produced.  Price,  75  Cents. 

Alv’  "Lay;  oi,  The  Sailor’s  Return.  In  Three  Acts.  Written 
composed  by  C.  A.  White.  Ten  characters,  including  chorus; 
x  be  made  more  effective  by  employing  a  larger  number. 

Price,  75  Cents. 


Catalop  les  describing  the  above  and  other  popular  entertain 
ments  sent  free  on  application  to 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO., 

THEATRICAL  PUBLISHERS, 


No.  23  Winter  Street, 


Boston,  Mass. 


NEW  OPERETTAS  FOR  CHILDREN 


Odd  Operas  for  Eventide. 

A  Collection  of  Short  and  Simple  Musical  Entertainments  for  Children. 

By  Mrs.  C.  N.  BORDMAN, 

Author  of  “The  Kingdom  of  Mother  Goose,”  “Motion  Songs  for  the  School¬ 
room,”  “  The  Temperance  Clarion,”  etc. 

Complete  with  all  the  music  and  full  instructions  for  performance.  This  collection  i& 
strongly  recommended  for  its  simplicity,  originality  of  idea,  tunefulness  and  perfect  prac-  j 
ticability. 

Price  .  •  .  •  50  cents. 

COUTEl^TS. 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  BROWNIES.  A  Musical  Sketch  for  Chil 

dren.  For  any  number  of  boys.  • 

JIMMY  CROW.  A  Recitation  for  a  Little  Girl. 

MARKET  DAY.  An  Operetta  for  Young  People.  Seven  speaking  parts 
and  chorus. 

QUEEN  FLORA’S  DAY  DREAM.  An  Operetta  for  Children.  Six 

speaking  parts  and  chorus. 

THE  BOATING  PARTY.  A  Musical  Sketch  for  Little  Children.  Thirty 

boys  and  girls. 

SIX  LITTLE  GRANDMAS.  A  Musical  Pantomime  for  very  Little 

Children.  Six  very  little  girls. 

A  HOUSE  IN  THE  MOON.  A  Recitation  for  a  Little  Girl. 


-  ;  f  5 


! 


ROBIN’S  SPECIFIC; 


' 


OR,  THE  CHANGES  OF  A  NIGHT. 

A.  Christmas  Operetta  in  One  Act. 


Words  by 

AMELIA  SANFORD. 


Music  by 

ADAM  CIEBEL. 


For  one  adult  and  nine  children  from  eight  to  sixteen  years  old,  with  eight  very  little  boy* 
and  twelve  little  girls  for  Chorus.  Three  changes  of  scene,  very  easily  arranged,  eostumef ; 
varied  hut  simple  and  readily  procured.  Very  effective  and  easily  gotten  up. 


Price 


£5  cents. 


Catalogues  describing  the  above  and  other  popular  entertainments  sent  free  on  application  6 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO., 

THEATRICAL  PUBLISHERS, 

No.  23  Winter  Street,  -  *  BOSTON,  MAS^. 


/ 


6*  J<*  PARKHILL  A.  CO.,  PRINTERS.  222  FRANKLIN  t*‘r 


wo4*  •  f  »<* 


